


Innocence

by GwenChan



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 1980s, Afghanistan, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Military, Angst, Anxiety, Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Injury, Cold War, General Victor Nikiforov, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mild Language, Military Ranks, Minor Character Death, Muslim Character, Muslim Otabek Altin, Private Katsuki Yuri, Racism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Soviet Union
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:45:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9652415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: Private Katsuki Yuuri had always admired the crown-jewel of the Red Army, Victor Nikiforov.But never in his life would he have thought to be on the same side of a rescue mission with the man.Or: the mission that never happened and no one is supposed to talk about.





	1. Prologue - The Dossier

**Prologue- The Dossier**

 

[ **Chapter 1** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9652415/chapters/21808040) **: The dossier**

**Innocence**

 

The first person to discover his secret had been Phichit, almost ten years ago. It happened during the chaos in the barracks where they both used to sleep, the immediate result of a rumour about a surprise inspection. It was during the confusion that Phichit had found himself redoing Yuri’s bed and, in doing so, he noticed the corner of what seemed to be a notebook peering out from under the mattress. At the moment, he didn’t care too much about the contents, actually, just hiding the object to cover for his friend.

With the passing days, however, his curiosity had grown in intensity till Phichit took the first opportunity to confront Yuri, far from any possible eavesdropping.

He asked: “So, what are you hiding under your mattress?”

Yuri’s eyes widened behind the glasses, sitting on that very same bunk. From his squirming, Phichit understood that he touched nerve. Bingo. It was something big, apparently. A wide grin spread across his face, as he leaned to put his arm around the other’s shoulder with a conspiratorial look.

“How do you know this?” Yuri asked, voice so low it was barely audible. Phichit made a gesture as if to say he didn’t consider the matter important. “It was when I made your bed before Sergeant Cialdini gave us the shovel talk about how dirty our rooms were. So, what are you hiding?”

“None of your business!”  
“Let me guess, some porn magazines? You could share, you know? It’s been so long since I’ve seen a girl that I’m starting to forget what they look like.”  
Yuri chuckled behind his closed fist. “I thought you liked wanking off thinking about Leo’s sweet ass!”  
“Yes, but after a while it starts to get boring!”

Phichit sighed dramatically, shoulders rising in an exaggerated manner. “No, seriously, what are you hiding?”

Yuri sighed too. He’d known Phichit since he had first enlisted in the Army. They faced all the humiliation and discrimination so often linked with having almond-shaped eyes together. Yuri every so often marvelled at the skill Phichit showed when he got his hands on any type of technology, no matter how new. Discovering that Phichit had a certifications in IT only made his admiration for his friend increase. He also knew that when Phichit fixated on something, it became impossible to make him change his mind.

This time he couldn’t dismiss the possibility that soon, obsessed due to curiosity, his friend would wait for Yuri’s first moment of distraction to get to bottom of the issue.

“If I tell you, do you promise to keep a secret?”

“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse!” Phichit assured. Yuri didn’t feel reassured in the slightest.

He kneeled on the hard floor and stuck his arm in the space between the lumpy mattress and the iron bed. When he pulled it out, his fingers were curled around a thin and rectangular object. It wasn’t, contrary to Phichit’s speculations, a porn magazine, more of a –

“Notebook. A dossier,” the man commented as he opened it. “Not any dossier. A dossier about-”

Yuri prayed that everybody else was too busy with their duties to hear Phichit’s surprised cry.

“Victor Nikiforov!  
“Hush!” Yuri hissed, waving his hands. The notebook, now on the bed, was open to one of the first pages. It showed a series of notes written in neat handwriting, a collection of grainy photos, probably cut from some newspaper. Phichit scanned over it.

“Name. Birthday –so lucky to be born on Christmas day, do you think he receives double the presents? – Birth place. Rank. A short bio. Missions. Damn it, Yuri, I’m not saying this stuff is on Secret clearance level, but, you know, Russians aren’t so generous with information about their military. How in heaven have you managed to put this together?”  
Yuri shrugged. Caressing the notebook’s yellowish cover, he felt a sentiment similar to pride blooming in his chest.

“It’s nothing too big. Most of this stuff has been on the TV. Victor’s too much of a genius for his name to not be on international newspapers. Then again, he’s a little careless about his personal information. More than what the USSR would like to admit. His superiors hate him for it.”

If Phichit opened his mouth a little bit more, his jaw would’ve ended up on the floor. Yuri was speaking with his usual shy voice, but in it there was a new assuredness and in his eyes, Phichit could see a kind of passion it makes you stay up at night.

Something passed in his head that, when it wasn’t busy cracking codes, pined about Thai musicals and his hamsters back home. Phichit saw a little blush colouring the other’s nose, almost a confirmation of his suspicions.

Yuri Katsuki has a damn crush on Nikiforov. This was what Phichit had thought.

 

 


	2. Between the Truth and the Lies

**Between the Truth and the Lies**

 

Victor Nikiforov was tired. With his hands on both sides of the moldy sink, leaning forward to examine his reflection in the cracked mirror **;** he indulged in a certain kind of vanity.

 

With great displeasure he noticed that his hairline was starting to recede and, although he still had all his hair on his head, the number of which he was losing, be it from stress or genetics, didn’t seem to decrease.

 

It was in these moments that Victor missed the time when his hair used to flow down to his hips. At the time he was sixteen and smiling beneath a little daisy-crown, while Georgi captured their small audience of fellow teenagers with a love ballad.

 

Now Georgi was Captain Popovich, his guitar abandoned to a past that seemed to belong to someone else. It wasn’t rare to cross paths in those days, and every time he found himself face-to-face with his former friend, Victor wondered where the Jora who used to paint his lips black and cried about the cruelty of destiny had gone.

 

Anyone from their old circle, if they saw Victor now, would’ve thought the same. They would’ve asked when had General Nikiforov had replaced the Vitya who had left home at fifteen to follow his dreams.

 

Re-entering the room, Victor found Popovich – Captain Popovich – already there, waiting for him. Georgi welcomed Victor with a little nod of his head and his lips pursed in an evident grimace of envy. The man wasn’t a bad person. Victor knew that – or at least he liked to think that something of the old Jora had remained within the man that now sported a severe buzzcut instead of the soft brown tufts. However, he also knew that Popovich was the type prone to be easily consumed by envy. Georgi’s tendency to be melodramatic hadn’t disappeared with military training; it had just found a new outlet.

 

Forever in Victor's shadow, despite having started his career in the Army more or less around the same time period as Victor, he had soon been left behind. Without any special recommendations or being the son of any important member of the party, Georgi had to conquer the promotion boards by taking the long way. He fought tooth and nail.

 

When Victor received his promotion to General – the youngest General in Russian history – Georgi congratulated him, but then he privately  drowned his frustration in vodka.

 

He wasn’t even lucky in love, despite being a very caring man, and while he struggled to find a good wife, Victor jumped shamelessly from woman to woman.

 

“Good grief, I was starting to wonder if you had fallen into the toilet bowl!” a third man huffed, Infantry Captain Yuri Plisetsky. His fingers drummed impatiently on the Formica table.

 

He didn’t seem to be particularly interested in the prisoner tied to the chair in front of him. The man on his side was still deciding whether being terrorized or showing bravery.

 

“Yakov?” Yuri asked then, noticing the absence of the political officer that should’ve attended the questioning.

 

“He felt sick. He said we can do without his presence this time.”

 

“That old geezer is falling apart!”

 

Laughing at his own joke, Plisetsky made a gesture in the direction of a fifth person that **-** up to now **-** had stayed in the shadows, in a corner against the wall: Lieutenant Otabek Altin.

 

“Lieutenant, you told us you could understand him a little. Lucky you! Anyway, if you’re ready, I’ll start. I’m looking forward to know why this scum was sneaking around our camp. Go on, ask him,” he continued, leaning back a little on his chair as to show an air of indifference. Plisetsky knew he had the upper hand and ever faithful to the nickname people gave him with – the Ice Tiger- he enjoyed playing with the mouse before freeing or eating him in a single bite. It depended on his mood.

 

The prisoner darted a glance first towards Plisetsky, then Otabek, and finally Victor, who seemed to have just stumbled in there. Then, without any warning, Victor sat down near Yuri and started to play with the Makarov gun he was carrying with him. He nonchalantly showed it was loaded, before taking it by the grip and twirling it between thumb and index finger. He ignored Altin’s glare.

“Hey Yuri, do you think it’ll take that long?” he asked, not stopping playing with the gun. He side-eyed the prisoner.

 

Understanding the message, the man- a mujahedeen, started to talk. Otabek translated.

 

“He says he did nothing wrong. He said he was a –“ Altin stopped a moment for the prisoner to repeat the last part of the sentence. He spoke quickly, stumbling on his own words, in a strange mixture of English and his native language.

 

“Guide for a group of Americans. A reconnaissance squad. It should’ve been a simple mission,” Otabek went on. His translation was almost simultaneous. He spoke with a strong Kazakh accent.

 

“He says they were testing the waters in order to establish a base in a nearby village, a good place. Elevated position. But they fell to an ambush by a group of raiders.”

 

“Let’s just say by someone just like him,” Yuri commented through gritted teeth. Victor’s mouth corners twitched upwards. Georgi remained deadpan.

Yuri leaned forward on the table. “You know, I don’t believe half a word of what you’ve said!” he blew. “Lieutenant, tell him!”

 

At hearing Altin’s words the man violently shook his head, repeating _nyet_. It was probably one of the few Russian phrases he knew. From his gap-toothed mouth, a rush of words spewed forth. Otabek could hardly keep up with him now, but the prisoner didn’t seem inclined in slowing down. An attentive ear would notice, however, how he was repeating the same sentences over and over, as proof of his innocence.

 

“He swears on Allah he did nothing wrong. He’s an honourable and good man. He’s a good Muslim. He says he would never betray anyone. He is not like some people. But he’s human and he was afraid, may Allah be merciful of his soul,” Otabek explained when finally the man stopped to catch his breath.

 

Yuri shrugged. He pretended to stifle a bored yawn.

 

“Tell him I don’t believe in non-existing guarantors.”

 

“Yuri!”

 

This time, much to Plisetsky’s surprise, Otabek didn’t obey the order immediately, but pursed his lips with irritation. The fact that he was a Muslim himself was something few people knew, especially in the anti-religious climate that still dominated the USSR. Yuri, however, was of those few. At the moment, still, it seemed to be irrelevant.

 

An hour later Yuri was starting to lose his temper. In the latest half an hour they had made zero progress with the prisoner. Yuri kept insisting that the man was lying, and the man insisted in declaring his good intentions, like a broken record.

 

“Fuck, Lieutenant, I’m done. I’m fucking done. Let’s make him spend some days in a cell and see if this helps him in clearing his mind.”

 

Otabek replied, unstressed. “Yuri, I don't understand why are you so mad at him,” he dared to add. Yuri punched the table, hard enough to make the gun, which Victor had put there after he had gotten bored of using it as a past-time, jump.

 

“Lieutenant, a fucking mujahedeen is found sneaking around at night less than ten meters from our camp, acting in a way I would dare to define as suspicious. Do you understand my doubts, don’t you? Do you know what happens if I let him go? I’ll tell you what happens: this man runs to his little American friends and the day after tomorrow we wake up with them knocking at our door. Do you understand now why I don’t buy a word of the bullshits he’s telling us? Georgi, take him away!”

Not saying a word, Popovich leaned over to untie the knots that were holding the prisoner’s ankles to the chair legs. When the arms were freed, the man massaged his wrists. He looked Otabek as to ask what was going on.

 

“Do you understand? We’re taking you away!” Yuri repeated, speaking directly to him. Otabek translated. To underline his words, Georgi tightened his grip on the prisoner’s shoulder to force him to stand up. The man began to shout, trying to wriggle free.

 

“Children!” Otabek exclaimed. Georgi froze. The grip loosened. Yuri lit up with a new interest and even Victor changed expressions.

 

“What?”

 

“Children. He says there were children,” Altin explained. Yuri flopped down on his chair.

 

“What do you think?” he asked Victor.

 

“The questioning is yours. I’m here just to avoid things going ugly like last time, Yura.”

 

“Things didn’t go ugly last time,” Plisetsky replied. “Anyway, I still believe that this guy hasn’t told us a single word that was true. Georgi, take him away!”

 

This time no one cared for the mujahedeen's protests.

 

Later, that evening, Victor approached Yuri to discuss the subject. He sat down near him, with a bottle of vodka as a peace offering. Yuri huffed. “Where did you take that? I thought it disgusted you **?** ”

 

“Somebody gave it to Yakov as a gift, but drinking isn’t good for his health, so why waste it? So, what do you think?”

 

Yuri put his mouth on the bottle lip and raised it enough to have the alcohol wetting it. When the liquid poured down his throat, it burned.

 

“What the fuck do I have to think? I think we all have softened. Or, you have gone soft! Two tears and now we start to have scruples!”

 

“Yura!”

 

“No, don’t “Yura” me! I’m not the Yura who used to follow you like a little pup, drooling over great Victor Nikiforov anymore. I’m Captain Plisetsky, and this time I won’t be fooled.”

He knocked down another sip, gritting his teeth. He’d started to drink when he’d became a Lieutenant, to appear more experienced, but he continued to loathe the taste. And it burned like hell. “How the fuck can Yakov like this stuff?”

 

“If you don’t like it, you can give it back,” Victor joked. Yuri held the bottle even tighter.

 

“You wish! You gave it to me, now it’s mine!”

 

They stayed silent for a while, only exchanging the bottle here and there and taking bigger and bigger sips.

 

“Yura, he said there were children,” Victor tried again to persuade him when Yuri’s cheeks started to get pink and the tongue seemed more inclined in remembering the good old days.

 

It was so strange to see him with a buzzcut, without his blond hair reaching down to lightly touch his shoulders. Yuri had an almost androgynous beauty. He was slim, with well-defined muscles, and Victor knew that as a child he’d been a model for a female Russian painter. He’d seen one of those paintings. In the picture, Yuri resembled a forest fairy, with his aquamarine eyes watching the far horizon and hands braiding a garland of reeds.

 

“How is your grandpa?” Victor asked out of nowhere. Plisetsky lowered his arms and his guard.

“Fine, at least according to the last letter,” he murmured, shaking the now empty bottle. It wasn’t a secret how much the man loved his dedushka, an ex member of the Party who had fought well in the Battle of Leningrad. “Dedushka Kolya is always the same. He cooks and he takes care of his vegetable garden.”

 

Victor smiled with nostalgia. “Then try to think about that man like he was your grandpa. Don’t you think he would’ve done the same?”

 

Yuri jerked away from the other’s attempt to put an arm around his shoulder.

 

“And then what, Vitya? If we start to imagine every enemy as our dear relatives, it’s the end. It’s a war! Do I have to draw you a picture? It’s a fucking war!”

 

“Our enemies aren’t the Afghans,” Victor pointed out.

 

Yuri bit his lips. He stood up and opened in arms, mouth moving on silent words. “I know! Vitya, I know! What do you want me to do? Children die, civilians die! I’m sorry, but it happens!”

 

“Not if we can avoid it.”

 

“And what if to avoid it, I lead my men into a trap? Are you ready to come to terms with the possibility? Because if you’re ready to take the risk, the floor is yours!”

“Let’s try to put the squeeze on him tomorrow and see how he reacts. We’ll decide from there,” Victor concluded, standing up with a quick pat on Yuri’s back. He got half grin in response.

 

“Hey, tell Yakov his vodka is terrible!”

 

“Will do.”

 

 _Othe_ ** _r_** _than telling him all of this,_ but Victor kept the last part to himself. If Yuri was hoping that the prisoner would turn over a new leaf, he was sorely mistaken. On the contrary, the man became even more insistent about the involvement of a group of children.

 

“Five children, shepherds. He says they found them lost in the mountains and that Sergeant de La Iglesia decided to help them. Sergeant de La Iglesia has a good heart. He’s not like the others,” Otabek translated.

 

Yuri rubbed his brow with the back of his hand.

 

“We’re not getting anywhere here!”

 

He stood and closed his fist on the doorknob, nodding for Victor and Georgi to follow him. A couple of cadets passing by in the corridor froze  when called to attention . Victor dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

 

“What did Yakov say?” Yuri asked without further ado.

 

“It’ll please you to know he agrees with you. However, unlike you, he has some useful contacts and he got informed on the matter.”

 

“And?”

 

“And, thanks to our Mila, we know in record time that the Americans had actually lost a recon squad near the place indicated by our man.”

 

“The squad leader?” Yuri insisted.

 

“Leo de la Iglesia.”

 

They continued discussing for what seemed to be hours.

 

When they came back to the little room, the prisoner was waiting, tied to the chair and with Otabek who wasn’t the most reassuring person ever. Yuri cut the chase.

 

“My friends here are so dumb to believe you, so they want to give you a chance. Now, I’m sure you’re hoping for me to send you back to your little American friends, but I’m not a fool. You’ll be our guide and if you dare to do anything even remotely threatening, if you dare to escape, if you even dare to look suspicious, I’ll plant a bullet in your skull. Understood?”

 

While Otabek was translating, Yuri noticed that Victor had disappeared once again from where he was standing just a moment before. Not even before he could ask where in the hell had the man gone, was he already back.

 

“What is it now?”

 

“I told Yakov to call the Americans!”

 

Yuri Plisetsky swore that one day he would strangle Victor Nikiforov.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I don't want to moderate comments, so I hope people understand the difference between what the characters think and what I (the author) think. I hope you understand that, at least at the beginning, I need some characters to be racists and assholes, to build a character development later.  
> I remind you that this is a war setting, so kind of swear language and little pity for the enemy. I also know that what has happened in the chapter is highly improbable, but bear with me, ok. Let's say it's a "author license".
> 
> All the characters are aged up: Yurio is around 26, while Victor is already in his forties.  
> Comments are more than welcomed. Sorry for my non native english.


	3. Face To Face

**Face To Face**

 

“What do you think this’ll be about?”

 

Phichit’s question accompanied by a little nudge in the ribs made Yuri startle. He was sitting in a jeep crossing the Afghan desert under the early afternoon scorching sun. The man raised a hand to shield his eyes over the glasses, well secured behind his nape with a string.

 

“Dunno. It’s absurd,” he muttered with head resting on his knees. Between them his M16 rifle peaked out, held for dear life in case of emergency. Before him Sergeant Crispino was swearing under his breath about the sand that kept creeping into his Colt 1911. On the other side JJ – Second Lieutenant Jean-Jacques Leroy – seemed a little too much enthusiastic for what appeared to be a small day trip to him.

 

If it hadn’t been so hot.

Major Cialdini hadn’t really been generous with information for the hastily assembled team. Some of them had been chosen for individual specialities and on-field merits. Others for the bond that already linked them with the members of the missing expedition. It wasn’t a novelty that both Yuri and Phichit were very close to Sergeant De la Iglesia and to Private Ji.

 

“I mean, Russians! We’re meeting the Russians!” an excited Phichit continued, waving his head from side to side, almost jerking it. He stood up to peer towards the horizon, impatient to see the first shapes of the Soviet camp appearing. Yuri grabbed his arm and pulled him down.

 

“Careful! We’re in enemy territory!” he hissed, peeking at Cialdini, who was occupying the driver-seat.

 

“As if we’ve never seen the Russians!” Crispino commented through gritted teeth. At this point, he seemed to have given up in trying to repay his gun. Yuri shrugged and just adjusted the glasses that kept sliding down on his nose, beaded with salty sweat rolling down from his brow to his lips.

 

“Damn it. Hot weather is fine, but I’m starting to miss Canada’s snowstorms,” JJ exclaimed out of the blue. Crispino glanced at him.

 

“Why don’t you ask for a transfer to the Afghan mountains? You’ll stop complaining about the hot weather in no time! Fuck this place! Enlist, they said. Lot of benefits, they said!”

The situation was already ridiculous. The yesterday morning they had been summoned in Major Cialdini’s tent, for a _special mission._ What it was about, however, hadn’t been specified, besides some vague details about the Soviets and the unpleasant consequences if they ever spilled the beans.

“Well,” Cialdini began when the jeep halted on the pressed sand clearing that extended before the barbed wire indicating the border of the Soviet camp. It was medium-sized, developed around a single concrete building. From its structure it looked like a former government facility or an old school. Now empty and in decay it was impossible to recognize what its original function had been. “The Russians had contacted us about Staff Sergeant De la Iglesia’s squad. I mean a couple of Russians contacted us. We have a truce with them, but they can’t guarantee either of our men’s safety. According to the law, you aren’t here. For my part, you don’t even belong to the US Army anymore. If something should happen, the US will be like that brat friend who always hid his hands when the teacher busted you. _‘I don’t know him!’_ Is what they’ll say. Anyway, the Russians offered to give you some Soviet uniforms as soon as possible –“

 

“In their dreams!” Crispino spat, with knitted eyebrows.

 

“As I was saying,” Cialdini resumed, as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “they offered, but I’ve gently refused.”

 

“Thank God!” Crispino sighed. He didn’t excuse his behaviour, though.

 

Yuri squirmed in distress in his seat. He tightened the grip on his rifle as his body tensed in wait of what would happen next. Would someone come to collect them or would they simply jump out of the jeep and made their merry way up to the facility, walking with heads held high towards what up to the day before had been the enemy. That was still the enemy?

The answer came in the shape of a tall figure that appeared in the distance. At first, it was only a blurred silhouette in the quivering air of a hot Afghan afternoon, then its outlines became clearer and clearer. He was tall, dressed in a simple uniform. A long, green jacket was thrown over his shoulder as if he’d undressed when the heat became insufferable. The golden trimmings and medals on the jacket shone in the bright light.

 

Yuri squinted to better observe the unknown man, under the mirage of the sun. He walked briskly, his pace both elastic and martial.

 

He had a well-shaped body, with broad shoulders and long legs. There was something vaguely familiar with him; however, as there’s always a gap between theory and reality, Yuri’s mind couldn’t quite connect the approaching man to the person he’d often seen in low-quality photos.

 

Nevertheless, when the stranger was close enough to greet Major Cialdini, standing a few meters from the jeep, all doubt vanished. Unmistakable silvery-blonde bangs moved a little as he returned the Major’s salute.

 

It was Phichit who gave voice to what Yuri couldn’t articulate in words.

 

“Holy fuck, Yuri, that’s Victor Nikiforov!”

***

All his life, Yuri Katsuki often daydreamed. Sometimes it was the only way to go on when training became too harsh: when it poured, with mud in places normally not exposed to the sun, and a drilling-sergeant shouting how useless he was.

 

When his hands started to tremble and nothing could stop them. Or when he heard the evil comments behind his back saying how much his anxiety made him a burden to the rest of the troop.

 

Yuri used to daydream about peaceful scenarios of him leaving the Army to go back being a waiter at the hot spring complex his family managed back in Japan. He had also daydreamed of war scenarios where, despite his panic attacks, he managed to guide his comrades back to safety.

 

In all his dreams, however, never had he imagined being in the same room with Victor Nikiforov. He stood at attention thanks to a habit now embedded in his body. The boot heels clicked one against the other. His heart started to beat faster than usual.

 

In theory both Yuri and Phichit were still under Cialdini’s command, thus not subordinate in any way to the Russian General; still, there was something about his charisma that was making it difficult for Yuri to remember that detail.

 

Nikiforov watched him for a while, almost surprised by his behaviour. Then, as he’d suddenly remembered the ranks pinned on his chest, he said: “Rest.”

 

Yuri’s shoulders bent just a little. He peered at the other Russian present in the room.

“And this is Infantry Captain Yuri Plisetsky,” he heard Nikiforov giving a brief introduction. His voice, in a surprisingly good English, came as if from another dimension.

 

“The Ice Tiger,” Yuri muttered.

 

“What, do you have a dossier about him too?” Phichit asked under his breath, while Nikiforov and Plisetsky had a little chat in a Russian too quick for Yuri to understand. That old two-weeks long crash course hadn’t been very useful. He swallowed. Plisetsky might be considered a second Victor – although making a similar comparison in his presence would’ve meant signing a death warrant – but while there was a kind of joviality in the older man’s manners, nothing smoothed the hardness of the second.

“What about him?” Phichit inquired, pointing at Otabek. Victor introduced him.

 

“Lieutenant Otabek Altin, our precious interpreter and one of the few people who can deal with the Tiger.”

 

“Shut up, Victor!” Plisetsky scolded him. He dropped on the chair, crossing legs with arrogance.

 

“Georgi?” he asked soon after. The answer arrived by itself in the form of Captain Popovich, followed by a stiff old man.

 

“There he is. And this is Yakov Feltsman, our –“

 

“Political officer,” Plisetsky concluded in his place. “Russian things.”

If the room had seemed small to Yuri before the arrival of the new acquaintances, now it was almost suffocating. He closed his fists behind his back, as anxiousness started to claw at his throat. A drop of sweat running down his temple, however, was the only external manifestation of his weakness.

 

“Well, I guess we can start this little chat,” Nikiforov began. Plisetsky pretended to throw up. Yakov glanced at him.

 

“Do you know this man?” Victor asked. A sepia-coloured photo, thrown on the table in a light spiral, emphasized his question. It showed the mujahedeen they’d questioned a couple of days before.

 

 _Let’s start_ _by seeing_ _if they recognize him_. This was what Yakov had said when Victor had explained his strange, bizarre idea. After all, Vitya would’ve always remain Vitya.

 

“Yes,” Cialdini answered. Both Phichit and Yuri nodded, with brows furrowed in a sincere recognition. Crispino and Leroy, for their part, didn’t show any recognition, but they had been called in a rush from a different location.

Albeit being the youngest in the room, it was Plisetsky who continued the questioning. Neither Popovich nor Nikiforov seemed surprised or irritated by the behaviour. On the contrary, the latter was almost amused, like a pleased father admiring his son’s progress.

 

“And he should’ve been your guide in a reconnaissance mission, right?” he enquired. Cialdini, Yuri, and Phichit again nodded with a single movement of the head. Plisetsky drummed on the table.

 

“I imagine that asking where you were would be too much. Whatever.”

 

He turned a little towards Popovich, posing a question that wasn’t expressed in words.

“I heard you’re very good liars, but not as good as I am at sniffing out a lie.”

 

A thing Yuri had noticed immediately about Plisetsky was that his body seemed incapable of staying still. Whether it was imperceptible fingers movements or head tilts, Plisetsky never stopped moving.

“Thus I want to see our man’s reaction upon seeing you. You don’t mind, do you?”

 

It was difficult to understand where he was getting at, what was swirling behind those cold aquamarine eyes. For a moment Yuri had the impression that Plisetsky hadn’t any emotions; that none of the Russians had emotions. There were plenty of rumours about the Soviets, some still linked with the “witch hunt” under McCarthy. Nevertheless, in that precise instant, when push come to shove, Yuri had doubt that some of those stories were true. Altin and Popovich were so rigid in their military pose that their gazes fixed on another dimension. Nikiforov’s eyes too tended to wander, as he’d been there by accident, except that they glowed back with interest at the right moment.

 

Above all Yuri felt Victor’s attention on him. He felt he was studying him, like with an old acquaintances meeting after many years. As if Nikiforov was expecting something from him.

“There he is!”

 

Meanwhile, Plisetsky had exited and come back with the prisoner, carelessly pulling him along.

The man beamed as soon as he recognized Yuri and Phichit. He even cracked a smile with that toothless mouth of his. Yuri reciprocated with an almost imperceptible nod, more out of education than anything else. They’d chosen that man because he spoke a passable English and had already proved to be a good guide in the past. Thus, when he hadn’t come back to the base after the news that Leo’s unit had gone missed, many had been sincerely worried. Others, however, had cried “traitor!”

 

Yuri wasn’t one of them.

 

“Well, I see you really know each other,” Plisetsky snorted. It was difficult to understand if he had found a confirmation to his doubts or not.

 

“Yes,” Yuri confirmed, just to be sure.

The rest of the conversation was long and tedious, rolling on the thin and fragile line of international diplomacy, on continuous exceptions. Both sides had motivations they were careful in hiding and everybody knew it. That conversation never existed, as inexistent as the mission about to take shape.

At one point, Yuri Plisetsky stood up and clapped his hands once.

 

“Well, who stays behind?”

 

They all raised their heads toward him, eyes expressing a question nobody dared to advance. It wasn’t necessary.

 

“What’s with those faces? You’re so dumb! Did you believe we would let you go away from this one without a guarantee,” the Russian Captain explained, shifting his gaze from one to another. He stopped at Yuri, who had the impression he would’ve been chosen if Cialdini hadn’t intervened.

 

“I’ll stay,” he offered, in a voice firm enough to prevent any protests from the Russians.

 

“It’s a nice gesture,” Victor conceded. And for the n-th time Yuri had the sensation he wasn’t observing him only out of sheer curiosity.

 

“Nice you say? In my humble opinion they are far too pampered,” huffed Plisetsky, rolling his eyes. He tilted his head towards Feltsman, asking: “So what do we do with him, considering that if someone discovers an American soldier is here we are all fucked up?”

“Me and Major Cialdini will come up with something. It’s not up to you, Yura.”

“Good, less work! So, we will contact you when the mission will be over,” Plisetsky continued.

 

“That’s good,” Celestino approved.

“Wonderful, we are –“ Plisetsky quickly counted in Russian – “eight. Four Americans, three of us. You didn’t bring anyone else with you, did you? Don’t answer. Yakov, is it a problem if we send a couple of ours? No. Perfect!”

 

“Four,” Victor corrected him, once the roster had been made. Plisetsky glanced at him, the kind of stare that could’ve killed a man. “I haven’t forgotten how to count!”

“No, but you’ve forgotten me. I’m coming with you,” the General continued. “Right, Yakov?”

 

“Would it be any of use to tell you no, Vitya?” the old man sighed, scratching his bald head.

 

Victor shook his head, a pleasant smile embellishing his relaxed features. “None at all, you know me!”

 

“Too well, unfortunately.”

***

It was already late evening when they finally arranged for accommodations in a room adapted to be a small dormitory. It hosted a bunk bed and a couple of camp beds. Crispino and Leroy claimed the single beds, throwing their sacks on them. Yuri and Phichit preferred to divide the bunks. They were all dead-tired, less inclined in staying awake chatting like they would've done normally. They ate the simple, almost disgusting meal the Russians gave them for dinner - a gesture mostly out of pity - in silence.

 

“It’s been ages since I’ve slept in a bunk bed,” Phichit exclaimed, quickly climbing up the stepladder. Yuri chuckled. Phichit hadn’t changed much from the days in Basic training, ten years ago, despite the fact that now he was higher up in ranks. Corporal Chulanont. Phichit could have an impeccable aim and slender hands, capable of breaking a man’s neck in a second, but in truth he’d remained an old fan of hamsters and gossip.

 

A pause and Phichit voice broke the silence again.

 

“They don’t know what Leo should’ve really done,” Phichit went on, his voice just a bit higher than a hiss.

 

“And they should never know,” Crispino echoed. Up to that moment, he’d appeared to be sound asleep, snuggled up as he was in the mold green cover. JJ, on the contrary, was snoring lightly, dropped dead as soon as his head had touched the pillow.

 

Yuri nodded. Then, remembering Phichit couldn’t see him from where he was, he voiced his confirmation.

 

“Yeah. Speaking would cause only problems. What matters now is finding Leo and the others. We’ll think about the rest later.”

 

“Long as they’re still alive!” Crispino grunted from his corner. “Fuck, did they fill these with rocks?” he whined. He turned on his side and poked the mattress.

 

Yuri did the same with his. He couldn’t deny it was uncomfortable, at least. It was lumpy, softer than the one he was used to in America, but like this, it tended to bend in the middle. Surely it would’ve given a terrible backache to whoever slept on it.

 

Luckily he was so tired he could’ve slept through the middle of Russian tanks crossing-fire. They would’ve been less noisy than Crispino, anyway. Yuri buried his head under what could’ve been a pillow, trying to block out the other’s protests.

 

“Holy fucking Christ! JJ, how can you sleep when these springs could cut your throat during sleep!” Crispino was indeed hissing, sucking on his wounded finger pad. “Tetanus. We’re all going to get Tetanus!”

Yuri _believed_ he was tired enough to sleep. He was mistaken.

 

In truth he was so tired he’d lost all his sleep. Adrenaline was rushing in his veins. In the end, Yuri gave up, rolling out of bed. He rubbed his eyes, put on his glasses after having gropingly retrieved them from a pocket in his jacket and pulled away some fringe tufts.

They’d warned them about the risks of lurking around at night without a guide – “We can’t guarantee anything our men’s behaviour!” – but he doubted that a simple walking out the door would cause any problems.

“Hey, you!”

 

Yuri hadn’t even taken a single step outside the room that his beliefs were refuted. He blinked in the feeble light of the hall, coming from a meager light bulb. He took a step forward to understand – the Russian accent made it almost impossible to understand him – and found himself face-to-face with Yuri Plisetsky.

 

There was something in Plisetsky’s posture that made him seem taller than he really was. Contrary to many soldiers Yuri had encountered, short and stocky build, his namesake had a slender and well-proportioned body, more agile than committed to brute force. Plisetsky pointed a finger to Yuri’s chest. The “tsk” sound he made laced with scorn.

 

“Listen to me. If it were up to me, I would’ve sent you all home with a kick in the ass so strong you’d jump all across the Atlantic Ocean. You wouldn’t have seen my prisoner even in photo.”

 

Plisetsky examined him from head to toe, the left corner of his lip bent upward in a condescending grin.

 

“Look at you! Did they finish the good pieces, so they sent you? Private! How old are you? Too old. You’d better leave!”

 

Yuri looked at the other. The shadow of a smile appeared on his lips.

 

Was Plisetsky underestimating him?

 

Plisetsky muttered something in Russian, almost like he was sputtering around something caught in his throat. Then he turned back looking at him and vomited a series of insults, this time in English. In the chaos of words – Plisetsky spoke fast – Yuri recognized terms like “useless” and “dumb.”

Yes, Plisetsky was underestimating him.

He shrugged. He was used to it by now. It wasn’t the first time someone stopped at appearances when it came to evaluating his abilities. After all, it was a common mistake. Yuri was small, slim but with a tendency to put on weight as soon as he broke his diet, when ungelled fringe tufts almost covered his brown eyes normally hidden by glasses, because he couldn’t stand contact lenses. This had become especially true now that he was in Afghanistan, where sand seemed to creep everywhere. People had a tendency to underestimate him because he spoke with a feeble voice and preferred to stay in the shadows. Sometimes he even stuttered.

And there was always the ever-present cloud of his anxiety.

 

“Well, it’s not me who had decided to come here. You called us. Why don’t you ask your superiors?” he commented when Plisetsky left him a window to answer. The Russian looked down on him  – literally and metaphorically, as he stood a full head over him. Plisetsky appeared on the verge of reply, but his mouth already opened in articulating a new answer closed without producing a sound. He huffed instead, before ordering him to leave and walking away. The only thing Yuri heard, grunted under breath, was a comment about “sticking Victor’s arrogance” in a certain place, “though he may even like it, knowing him.”

 

But surely Yuri had imagined the last part. He blamed his tiredness and rubbed his sleep-filled eyes again. He’d been awake since the dawn of the previous day, he noticed, as he dragged himself to the small dormitory.

 

Before entering, he had the impression of seeing  Plisetsky out of the corner of his eye – or it was a shape with the same height and body structure – leaning towards another shadow. The gesture was almost tender, he would dare to say.

 

Yes, sleepiness was playing tricks on him.

He fell asleep without even taking off his glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wonderful and helpful boyfriend, who's helping me with all the military stuff, had told me that in the eighties there have been some kind of encounter between Russians and Americans. So I'll try to put the in-universe version of the banquet encounter.
> 
> I’ve decided to anticipate the update by a day, but only because I have the chapter ready.  
> Just to recap a little. 
> 
> US Army  
> \- Yuri Katsuki, 34, Private First Class.  
> \- Phichit Chulanont, 31, Corporal.  
> \- Michele Crispino, 33, Sergeant.  
> \- Jean-Jacques Leroy (Canadian acquaintance), 30, Second Lieutenant  
> \- Celestino Cialdini, 56, Major.
> 
> Yuri hasn't advanced in career because his anxiety attacks made him look unfitted for command. Add a bit of discrimination and racism too. 
> 
> Russian Army
> 
> \- Victor Nikiforov, 38, General  
> \- Yuri “Ice Tiger” Plisetsky, 26, Infantry Captain  
> \- Otabek Altin, 29, Lieutenant  
> \- Georgi Popovich, 37, Captain  
> \- Mila Babicheva, 29, KGB officer,  
> \- Yakov Feltsmann, 81, Political officer.


	4. With A Step

**With A Step**

 

The alarm rang too soon. It came with the thumping noise of a pair of military boots smashing against the wooden door with violence that only a quiescent, years-old anger could’ve produced.

Yuri fluttered his eyes open, exiting his alert half-sleep condition. After years being a soldier, it characterized his sleep-pattern, even when fatigue was at its maximum. He slipped a finger behind the askew glasses lenses, straightened them, and rubbed the grogginess from his eyelids. It was like a thick fog, and he was used to it by now.

It felt like he had slept only few seconds.

By nature, Yuri had never been a morning person. Not even after years of being woken up at sun break had succeeded in fixing the difficulty his body had in shaking off in the morning.

Yuri raised an arm to peer at his wristwatch, squinting his eyes against the luminescence of bluish figures signing 0455.

A groan on his left told him Michele too was waking up from his sleep, laying on the floor because “Better this than getting Tetanus”. Above him, on the contrary, Phichit was still snoring lightly. A small punch under the friend’s mattress was enough to make him spring like one of the spirals that squeaked at every little movement. Phichit jumped down the bed without even using the ladder, bending his knees to soften the landing.

In a rush he got himself, dressed, hair-combed, rucksack slung over his shoulder. He hopped from foot to foot, excitement for the unknown running visibly under his bronze skin.

Michele was getting dressed too He was buttoning his uniform jacket single-handedly while muttering under his breath about his backache from sleeping on the hard concrete. With the other hand, he rummaged in his rucksack, checking to see if anything was forgotten or missing.

JJ, on his side, seemed to be still deeply immersed in the realm of dreams. His elk-like snoring was the only sign he was still alive in an otherwise complete immobility.

“Hey, you! Have you ended playing ‘Sleeping beauty’?!”

The three out of the four turned towards the door. Plisetsky, looking so angry as though they’d just killed his whole family, had kicked the door open with enough force to send the handle clashing against the wall, creating a shower of plaster. His foot, raised and ready to kick the first surface available, dropped heavily on the floor.

Once, twice, the sole slammed against the floor. It seemed Plisetsky wanted to dig a hole in it. JJ, however, didn’t blink an eye. His sleeping expression was too peaceful for the situation at hand.

“You, wake the fuck up!” the Russian Captain shouted. He made his way toward the man’s bed with wide strides. He kicked Yuri and Michele’s sacks on his way without any trouble. Then, he grabbed JJ by his feet and dragged him out of the covers. JJ opened his eyes, batted his eyelids with painful slowness. He looked at Yuri and smiled blankly.

“Good morning. You’re almost as pretty as my fiancée,” he exclaimed, dodging with a jump, strangely agile for a freshly awoken person, Plisetsky’s attempt to kick him.

With hands closed in fists, throbbing with repressed fury, and nostrils that were about to start flaring, Plisetsky hissed: “Leaving in half an hour. If I don’t see you coming in ten minutes I’ll kick you back to America!”

They all nodded, rushing to grab each their stuff with that mix of speed and organization only years in the Army can teach.

“The toilet?” Yuri asked before Plisetsky disappeared in the aisle.

“There’s one down on the first floor, near the entrance,” he was told.

Among the various things Yuri would never got used to in army-life – to the point it was normal to wonder why he had enlisted in the first place and he still wondered too, looking for a reason that ten years ago should’ve been crystal clear – there was a kind of laziness when it came to personal hygiene.

Growing up till early adolescence in a hot-spring resort, he was used to constant baths. The man still suffered the occasional showers and having to spend days with just enough water just to wet his face when stuck in the field. He thought with disgust about Leo’s mania of not washing a pair of “lucky” socks or the time there’d been a lice outbreak. They’d been all shaved, but there still was continuous scratching an imaginary itch for weeks.

           “Nice people.”

He spun, with a toothbrush dangling from his lower lip, to find himself face-to-face with Phichit. His mouth was full of toothpaste too. Yuri spat in the sink. He turned on the faucet, from which a slime of yellowish water poured.

“Better not touch it,” JJ told them, passing by to use one of the two available toilets.

“Yes, it would be a dumb way to die,” Michele agreed with him.

Phichit, spat out the toothpaste and threw the toothbrush into a pocket of his rucksack, gestured Yuri to follow him out of the toilet. Yuri would recognize that glance in a second, having become familiar with it after years of running missions together shoulder to shoulder.

“Nikiforov,” Phichit began.

“Right.”

“Victor.”

“Mm.”

“Victor Nikiforov! Can you believe it!? Going on a mission with Victor Nikiforov. Do you want me to pinch you to wake you up?” Phichit continued. Yuri ducked Phichit’s grabby fingers.

“Don’t you dare,” he exclaimed. If it was a dream, a foolish and absurd dream, he didn’t feel ready to wake up yet. And there was something strange in the back of his mind, like a déjà-vu too elusive to be grabbed. He thought about the kind manners Victor had and the peculiar attention that, in the few hours they’d spent together, the man had showed to him. It was almost like Victor considered him more worthy of his sympathy than the others.

Yuri couldn’t understand why.

“Oh, here come the others. Better go.”

           They found a young man at the bottom of the stairs. He had a joyful smile, too joyful, and snapped in attention as soon as he saw them. Clearly, he knew who they were.

“Finally! Another minute and Captain Plisetsky would’ve exploded. He’s been muttering for an hour now. Emil Nekola!” he introduced himself. Yuri wasn’t still well versed in Russian military ranks like he would’ve liked, but he hypnotized that he was a Private. Emil’s English had a strange accent, not Russian though. Yuri struggled to recognize it. Not that he had the time to think about the matter, as Emil was already walking away through the hallway, not even turning around to check if they were following him.

“The others are already ready,” he continued, explaining that two vehicles were waiting for them at the borders of the camp. They would exit through the backdoor to avoid detection that would lead to excessive turmoil.

“Even though alarm hadn’t rung yet.”

“Lucky them,” Michele hissed. Yuri silently agreed with him. Outside the dawn was colouring the outlines of the Afghan mountains, standing high against the horizon in the morning mist. It painted the peaks with pale rose and weak oranges streaks.

           As anticipated, there were two medium-sized trucks, one of which covered, waiting for them. The vehicles had been already loaded with weapons, food, water, fuel, and other equipment. Just thinking about food, Yuri felt his stomach gurgling; besides the lame dinner the evening before, he hadn’t eaten almost anything in the last twenty-four hours.

Popovich was at the driver-seat of the covered truck; the passenger seat occupied by a soldier Yuri didn’t recognize.

Victor was leaning against the other truck, ignoring Plisetsky who was pacing non-stop in circles around it. “It’s about time!” he welcomed them.

“Yura, don’t be rude,” Victor scolded him. He looked like he had just woken up from a long and restful beauty sleep. Passing near, however, Yuri could notice deep eye-bags under the man’s blue eyes, as if instead of having gotten up fresh and perky, the General hadn’t slept at all. He gave the impression of a man who had learnt to live with perpetual insomnia.

“Well, I hope none of you suffer from claustrophobia. Not that I care,” Plisetsky remarked.

The plan, he supposed, was simple, but more vulnerable to setbacks. The Russians will drive outside the camp with a fake excuse – “You’d better have come up with something plausible, Vitya” – with the Americans staying hidden somehow among the other stuff. They drew straws. Crispino and Leroy were the luckiest and jumped on the covered truck.

Before he was aware of it, Yuri found himself laying on his back. He was framed between a gas can that was lukewarm to the touch and a couple of rolled tents on his right and Phichit on his left. The engine vibrations, amplified by the vehicle’s metal body, spread from his tailbone to his nape, making his teeth click in an almost funny way.

“This is new,” Phichit whispered, breathing in his face. Yuri made a disgusted face.

“And I’m sure I’ve seen you brushing your teeth!”

A moment of silence, then a jolt told them the truck had set towards the camp exit. Yuri tried to turn on his back to have a better view. He didn’t have much success.

           He heard someone speaking Russian, and the crack in the vehicle was too thin – and with a very bad angle – to see something besides a strip of sky. Still, Yuri managed to understand some words, enough to reconstruct the dialogue with a bit of imagination. Victor, Plisetsky, and Altin had received the mission to hand over the prisoner. Did they need the presence of General Nikiforov himself? Oh, an alpha priority. And what about Captain Popovich? A training mission. There was the rustling of a paper letter being opened.

“Well, everything seems in order.”

And then the problem wasn’t when someone exited, more when someone entered.

           In the cramped space where Yuri was and without the aid of a compass, it was difficult to understand which direction the truck had taken after having left the camp, near Herat. Yuri had the sensation the vehicle had headed south, after a brief trip east to muddle their tracks. Everything according to what the mujahedeen had told them and the information Yuri possessed.

Still, once he exited from his hideout, he would have a more precise idea of the whole situation. Every so often he kept an ear out to catch pieces of the chats Plisetsky and Nikiforov were exchanging or the small comments the prisoner revealed to Otabek.

Yuri remembered well where Leo should’ve headed – the name of the place was well imbedded in his memory – but the possibility that Leo and the others had diverted from the original path flashed through his mind. According to the Russians, Leo’s squad wanted to play “The good Samaritan” – Plisetsky’s words – and found themselves entangled in an ambush. This was what the mujahedeen had confessed. Phichit would’ve said a similar behaviour was in Leo’s character, and Yuri would’ve agreed with him without a second thought. If there was a person with a good heart, that was Leo de la Iglesia.

At least an hour had passed, with the hot becoming more and more suffocating as the sun set in the whitish sky when a voice – Plisetsky’s – told them they could come out. Yuri obeyed, with bones creaking as he stretched in a familiar routine to be free from the torpor. In the little space available, he moved to fight the annoying numbness the prolonged immobility had caused. His fingers flexed and closed around the strap of a M16 rifle. It was an almost automatic gesture, made easy by years of practice. Yuri slung the rifle over his shoulder with a fluid movement. Near him, Phichit was arming too. Not very far away, Crispino and Leroy were doing the same. Or at least Yuri supposed.

The sun, still set halfway up the sky in the morning air, already wounded his eyes, drawing long shadows on the green and yellow ground. There were moments where Yuri regretted not being able to wear sunglasses. Too bad, he’d never got used to the way the dark lenses distorted the surroundings and made it difficult to distinguish things more than it already was with his impending short-sightedness.

Herat valley was one of those places that, without the stain of the war, would’ve been a little paradise. A big, powerful, and slow river crossed it, making it an oasis of green in the middle of desert and barren wastelands. The plateau was divided in cultivated fields, pointed here and there by small deep-green woods. Ochre-coloured, naked hills rose from the ground; on the horizon, the top of the mountains that in the distance stood up to hide the sky. Michele, who had spent almost an entire year there, had described them as cruel and elusive. He had spoken about greedy ravines, insurmountable surfaces, and storms as unpredictable as they were lethal.

Sometimes villages made of mud and stones appeared, small communities that once must have been alive, but that now suffered the abandonment war always brings. Yuri couldn’t avoid noticing how the natives ran inside, hiding, as the truck passed by. Children were called. Goats and chickens were gathered up in a rush. Then, turning around to watch those villages one last time, the man saw them coming back to life; just a little, like worms peering from the ground after a rainfall. They passed by a couple in the first hour.

There was a profound melancholy in all of that.

The wristwatch figures signed nine. Yuri’s stomach gurgled again.

“Oh, my, my!” Victor exclaimed, almost amused by that sound – as if the situation wasn’t already embarrassing enough. “Excuse our bad manners. Yura, give them something to eat!”

Plisetsky crossed arms on his chest, making a disapproving sound. “I’m not their fucking little waiter, Vitya.”

“We have something, don’t worry,” Yuri answered quickly. He put his backpack in his lap and started rummaging inside. He was sure there were still some melted chocolate and a couple of granola bars at the bottom, maybe among the spare socks.

“Pathetic,” his namesake whispered.

“Nonsense!” Victor insisted, almost as if instead of traversing a fertile valley that would soon be replaced by the desert they all were in a parlour in Leningrad drinking tea and eating pastries. Yuri, albeit indirectly, knew about this peculiar side of General Nikiforov. People said he changed moods as the wind changes directions. He had a playful spirit but was also capable of moments of extreme, deadly seriousness. His changing character, limpid to the point of being uncatchable, made him a man to fear and, his victories did justice to his famous name.

Yuri and Phichit were offered some bread, biscuits, and even a gulp of vodka, which they kindly declined. Instead, they preferred a tube of condensed milk to mix with the leftover coffee they still had in their canteens.

“Do you want some?” Phichit asked Otabek, noticing the interest man held when looking at the drink in the metal cup. Lieutenant Altin pretended to reflect for a moment about the offer, but in the end, he accepted. Phichit gave him the cup with a smile.

“Please, don’t tell me you want it too!” Plisetsky hissed at Victor. The man frowned and turned towards Yuri, flashing a smile so big and bright that Yuri froze with his cup mid-way on its path to his mouth.

“Do you want some?”

Knowing that Nikiforov’s silent request was almost an order. “It’s not bad, you should try it, Yura!” Victor said, after having drunken some. He cleaned his lips with a handkerchief.

“For heaven’s sake, it’s a latte!”

But when he was given the beverage, he didn’t refuse to partake of it. He did the same with the chocolate, as soon as Yuri succeeded in retrieving it from his pack. The leftover chocolate bar had melted into a sticky and stale mess, but Plisetsky devoured his share with a childlike frenzy, much to Victor’s amusement.

Meanwhile, in the covered truck that slogged behind them, the soldier called "Emil” was trying to start a conversation with Michele in every possible way.

“Oh, who is she?” they heard him shout. Michele snatched a photo from Nekola’s hands.

“My sister, hands off,” he replied, checking that the picture wasn’t damaged. Hot weather and the passage of time had faded it. Its sides were worn out, but the pictured person was still well visible. It showed a woman more or less Michele’s age, with long, rich-brown hair held in a firm bun.

“She’s pretty,” Emil commented, leaning forward to peer as much as possible before Crispino put away the image, securing it in the uniform’s pocket, near the heart.

“Over my dead body.”

Emil shrugged, raising his hands as if to prove his utterly total good intentions.

Yuri too was looking at a picture of a young woman. He held it tight between his fingers to not let it fly away.

“Is she your girl?” Victor asked, not even turning, staring at him in the rear-view mirror.

Yuri shook his head. At his side Phichit chuckled a little, noticing the light blush spanning from Yuri’s nose to his cheeks.

“No, an old friend,” he answered, quite embarrassed. “But she’s married,” he added soon after to avoid any misunderstandings. Plisetsky made a face. Altin, on the contrary, looked almost interested in hearing the rest of the story.

In the last letter Yuko had written to Yuri, she talked about her daughters, triplets, and how they would’ve soon got their diplomas.

_They’ve grown up so quickly, but they’re as mischievous as you remember them. Loop wants to study journalism, Lutz is practicing hard for the Japanese nationals and Axel has dived into economic studies._

Yuko Nishigori and her husband managed a small ice rink back in Yuri’s hometown. He had hung around that place as a kid and pre-teen, before moving to America.

When the others cadets had discovered he had taken ballet lessons during his childhood, they mocked him for months. Still, they had to apologize seeing how his dance background gave him a noticeable advantage in hand-to-hand combat. He was agile, precise, and flexible, in addition to his great stamina.

           By midday the sun had reached its zenith. A couple hours later, the heat had become unbearable. Of all of them, Plisetsky seemed the most affected. He had taken off his sweat-stained jacket and ended up wrapping it around his head as protection from the scorching sun.

Yuri wiped his brow, regretting not having been chosen to travel on the covered truck. There the tarp spoke promises of a pleasant shadow. He turned to check the vehicle and saw Georgi’s silhouette, slumped over the steering wheel, as if he were melting.

“Fuck this weather. I don’t understand the obsession people have for hot places!” Plisetsky grunted, gulping water from his canteen. He shook it towards Otabek, water sloshed against the metal; the Lieutenant refused, as did the mujahedeen. Yuri took mental note to ask his name later. Those two didn’t seem to suffer the heat as the others. The prisoner had the advantage of being a native, but Otabek remained a mystery.

And then there was Victor. He had stripped out of his jacket but acted so unaffected that he gave the impression his pale skin would’ve been cold if touched.

Yuri turned once again, looking at the covered truck as it faded into a vague and smaller figure. He watched it disappear in the boiling air, as the distance with the truck increased. He saw it limping on the road, slower and slower.

When the covered truck was reduced to nothing more than a blurred dot, it was clear something was off.

Yuri told the others. “We have to stop,” he ordered. The current urgency made him forget customs and courtesies.

“What’s the matter?”

Victor braked and turned the engine off. Yuri pointed out how far the covered truck had fallen behind.

“Yeah, they seem to have some problems," Phichit inferred, eyes glued to the spyglass taken from his backpack. Plisetsky groaned like a wounded animal, grunting what Yuri supposed being the Russian equivalent of “Why me?”

They tried to contact the rest of the group via radio, static interfering in the background, but the answers were short and confusing.

“Nothing else to do, we have to check,” Victor said.

“Wow, what a genius,” was Plisetsky deadpan answer. “Who goes?”

After a brief but heated discussion on who was being left behind on the truck – like the riddle with goats and cabbages – they decided that the prisoner, Otabek, and Phichit would stay in the vehicle – “Engines are not my field” – while the others would walk to the covered truck under the afternoon sun

Before moving, Yuri checked that his M16 was loaded and working.

Of the three, Victor had the longest stride and it was difficult to keep up with his pace. For every one of his steps, Yuri had to take almost two.

They found Georgi and JJ bent over the vehicle engine, heads ducked under the hood. Emil and the other private were sipping from their water bottles and chewing beef jerky. Their rifles, resting next to them, was a sign of how their calm was only apparent. Michele was tensely keeping guard, nearby.

“What’s happened?” Victor asked when they were near enough to be heard.

Georgi lifted his head, cheeks and fingers dirty with grease. “I can’t figure it out. Something with the engine,” he stated.

“Must be overheating,” was JJ’s final diagnosis. His suggestion to wait was met with a disapproved muttering, but there wasn’t much else to do. Plisetsky told Altin via walkie-talkie. Yuri and Victor relieved Michele and Emil.

Half an hour later the situation hadn’t improved in the slightest. Georgi turned the ignition’s key, but the engine sputtered in vain.

“Lemme try!” Plisetsky pushed Popovich aside without care. His attempt hadn’t much more success.

“Have you checked the coolant?” Yuri suggested. Standing so still and exposed in the open was a novelty for him and, as such, made him feel ill at ease. He felt sweat pool down his tighten muscles, ready to jolt at the first suspicious movement. The first signs of paranoia distorted normal noises for signs of danger.

His namesake kept his eyes glued to the distant truck. “My aim is very good,” he had hissed in the mujahedeen’s ear. If not the words, the man had understood the meaning.

“Yeah,” JJ confirmed. He leaned forward once again, though, for a second check. The coolant seemed fine, nothing to say.

“The belt?” Michele suggested, over the wind’s noise. Once again JJ bent over to verify. “Yeah, you’re right!”

This time there was an affirmative answer. He called all of them around the hood, pointing out the cause of the damage. “You see? Must’ve broken from the wear. It happens when you use old transportation.”

“Can you repair it?” Plisetsky cut it short. He didn’t seem inclined to listen about why and how Soviet means were inferior to American ones.

“With my eyes closed.”

Michele rolled his eyes. Nevertheless, JJ seemed to be in perfectly in charge of the whole situation, completely aware and in control of what he was doing. It was clear that command was something that came natural to him, rushing through his veins. Yuri had heard that the Leroy family had a deep tradition of serving in the military and that all JJ’s siblings had entered different branches of the Army. As for JJ, who was the eldest, called himself “The King”, and apparently, it was a nickname he had earned. Still, they were all tense while waiting, rifles ready and bodies quivering with anticipation. Yuri Plisetsky never lost sight of the truck, not even for a moment. He kept on communicating with Otabek to keep him updated about their progress.

Yuri could’ve aimed his rifle in a fraction of a second. Michele had his own already pointed. Emil and the other private examined the horizon. Victor seemed the most relaxed, but Yuri had no doubt he was as alert as any of the others, if not more.

“Done, it should hold!” JJ announced after two hours, that were as long as a lifetime.

“Let’s hope to not have any more troubles.”

They hadn’t. The unexpected damage had made them lose precious time and energy, but they still managed to cover about forty kilometres before the sun set and they found themselves forced to stop. Plisetsky wanted to continue at night, but Victor and Georgi considered it too dangerous. Otabek agreed with them. The prisoner nodded fervently.

In the end, they decided to set up the camp when the last traces of blue left the sky. Michele and Otabek were selected for the first rotation of guard duty.

“Yura, come eat with us!” Victor invited the captain, patting the bare ground near him. He had taken out his rations and sat down in front of Yuri and Phichit, asking: “Do you mind?”

They didn’t.

Not far away Emil had disrupted Michele’s intention to eat alone, and now they were chatting animatedly. Or, Emil was chatting, and Michele was telling him to shut up.

“If you want to hang out with them, feel free. I’m going to sleep. Beka, wait!” Plisetsky grunted, marching to reach his friend. Victor made a little apologetic smile for his behaviour.

Yuri curled his fingers around the lukewarm metal of the coffee cup. The drink smell was helping him calm down. He took a sip, and the steam fogged his glasses, in the cool evening air. Next to him, Phichit made a face. Russian coffee was more bitter than he was used to.

Victor breathed on his fingertips, elbows resting on his knees, eyes lowered. When he smiled, many small creases formed around them. He looked almost vulnerable. He looked human.

Yuri ducked his head.

“What kind of person is this Leo?”

“For Guang Hong and Phichit, it’s Mr. Perfect Ass!” Yuri murmured, deadpan. He dodged just enough to avoid the friend’s elbow.

“He’s a brave man, never backing down. The kind that no matter how many times you push them down, they always get back on their feet. He was our friend,” Phichit continued.

“Is,” Yuri corrected. “Is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now have a beta! Seikotash is being wonderful in helping me not only with the English but also with all the military accuracy. I'll need to revise also the already published chapters, so I apologize for incongruencies. I'm doing my best.  
> Since now I need to wait for the chapters to be betated, the uploading will probably shift from a chapter per week to a chapter every two weeks/10 days.
> 
> Leningrad= St Petersburg


	5. The Sandstorm

**The Sandstorm**

Otabek Altin loved the night. He appreciated both its quietness and the protection darkness offered to those, like himself, who knew how to seize all its secrets. He loved it because it guarded him; it hid his face and allowed him to express the part that he tended to keep secret during the day. The night spoke of silences and secrets, but also of music and distant dances.

“I’ll take care of that part,” Sergeant Crispino had warned him. With that he walked away, stopping at the opposite side of the small camp they had set for the night.

22:00 had just passed.

 

Otabek stood still, observing for a while the other’s back, defined by the crescent moon light. Then duty prevailed. Thus, he reached for Crispino, grabbing his shoulder. Crispino started, turning in one sharp movement. Altin would’ve been punched on the nose if he had not been quick enough in blocking the other’s arm.

“Better stick together,” he told him in his accented English, loosening his grip. Crispino stared, eyes reduced to slits, but eventually he let himself drop to the ground.

“Whatever.”

Otabek relaxed his shoulders and tilted his head back a little to study the night sky. With his stare he looked for the Little Dipper, hoping for it to be visible at that latitude. When he located it, he referenced it to find the Northern Star.

It was something his grandfather taught him, how to orient using the stars, before he could even talk.

As he watched the star, he silently prayed. It was rare to find a long-enough moment of calm and silence to pray. With what little time he had, Lieutenant Altin decided that Allah would turn a blind eye if he had to break some rules. Nevertheless, he tried to respect as much as possible the other dictates, especially when it came to food and beverage.

 

That afternoon, during the tension from the forced stop, the prisoner told him that he was surprised at the respect Otabek had shown in regards to his religion. The Lieutenant hadn’t replied to anything in particular, but made a vague gesture of gratitude; the man, however, cautiously continued to speak with no end in sight.

“You’re different from the others,” he went on, pointing at the Russians who were dealing with the stalled covered truck in the background.

“Because I’m not Russian.”

Otabek hadn’t deepened the discussion, using his own silence as a shield. He had however felt a flicker of national pride rising in his stomach. As quickly as it had appeared, it subsided with the same celerity. Otabek hadn’t the same repulsion for the USSR his father had or, even more, his grandfather; still he struggled with considering it his Motherland.

 

The Altin were a family of fierce men, noble warriors, and hunters; women walked proudly with heads held high, fast like racehorses, and precise like hawks.

His had been a strange childhood. Not strictly sad or painful, because he had grown up having more than other children, but soaked, nonetheless, with melancholy. They had separated him from his family, from his birth family. So, he had grown up in a re-education structure of the Soviet government, a place where children from dissident families could learn to love their country. Otabek, however, never fully forgot his family name or origins. Too little to remember the language, he had learnt both Kazakh and Arabic by himself as an adult. The same he did with Pashtu and Dari.

At first, languages had seemed elusive, tricky as false friends. Eventually, Otabek had discovered how words could produce music, and it was like receiving the key to the Universe. Sentences he had struggled to pronounce just a day before started rolling easily off his tongue only if he chanted them. Foreign sounds acquired an unexpected familiarity. Also, memorizing verbs and syntax rules became easier since he didn’t rely on a passive grammar book, but learnt from every day use.

He was singing a mute melody to himself, unspoken words brushing his lips to stay awake when Yuri’s familiar voice broke through his reflections.

“Go to sleep. I’ll relieve you.”

Two hours had already passed.

Otabek nodded and stood up. Had they been alone, he would’ve caressed that fairy-like face, waiting for the other to abandon himself to the touch and be held. Instead, he limited to a neutral, manly pat on Plisetsky’s shoulder. Meanwhile, Chulanont had arrived to relieve Crispino. “JJ’s snoring so loud I’m surprised nobody hasn’t found us yet. Even that friend of yours –“  
“He’s not my friend,” Michele interrupted him. Phichit pretended he didn’t hear him. “That friend of yours, what’s his name?”

“Nekola. And he’s not my friend.”  
“Precisely him. Also, his snoring is not a joke.”

 

Phichit Chulanont, Plisetsky soon discovered, wasn’t the kind of person who got discouraged by an angry face when it came to getting to know each other. As ridiculous it might have been in their situation. Thus, as it was the most natural thing in the world, Chulanont started: “So your name’s Yuri too.”

“There’s no “too” here. It’s your Yuri that’s called the same as me!” Plisetsky immediately corrected him. Phichit ducked his head in the darkness, a smile ghosting on his lips. “Maybe, but I’ve met the other one first.”

“And so? This conversation is useless. I’m Captain Plisetsky, no confusion here!”

 

Captain Yuri Nikolayevich Plisetsky.

His mother was a beautiful Bolshoi ballerina, one of the best. His mother’s name was Margarita Plisetskaya. It was a tough job, training, and dancing had destroyed her feet, her ankles, her knees, but she loved it nonetheless. At twenty she knew little of the amusements girls her age talked about; she wouldn’t have changed places with them for anything in the world though.

Girls her age ate pastries with their fiancés, read romances novels, and worried about upcoming exams. Margarita spent hours reviewing the basics, feet and legs bending, arching, and gliding in familiar routines.

She had been one of the candidates to become the next Prima. Instead, she had met a cruel fate in the flesh and bone of a drunken spectator after the show. He had followed her as she returned home, assaulted, and raped her.

It was only by some miracle if her psyche hadn’t gone to pieces; her career and her life, however, had been shattered. As what always happens during a crisis, several people turned their back on her. When she couldn’t hide her pregnancy anymore, the other ballerinas, with whom she had been on friendly terms, turned against her. The theatre’s director poured out beautiful words, but kicked her out, his actions told his true opinion. Colleagues, who had always treated her as their equal, started to behave like she was plagued or, worse, with masculine condescending.

Margarita found herself alone, with no money, knowing how to do nothing besides ballet. What was worse was than that, deep within her, Margarita knew she was a smart, resourceful woman; she could re-invent herself, she had the means. Still, the more her belly grew, the more she lost the drive. Little by little she stopped moving, with the exceptions being basic biological needs. With time she ceased eating, devoured by the spiral the unwanted foetus had created within her.

Sometimes Yuri thought he would’ve died, unborn, if his grandfather hadn’t intervened. Worried sick for not having heard any news from his daughter for two months, Nikolai Plisetsky went to her place, and there he found her, bundled up in an old sweater, belly protruding against the woollen cloth. Margarita had dirty hair, and curled up in an abandoned corner, while days-old food grew mould.

Nikolai had lost his wife, while young, and raised Margarita alone. He was a soldier, and in the Army, he learnt to sew, cook, and to how to deal with all the things normal people tended to be disgusted of.

Firstly, he helped her wash, with the same calming gestures of when she was a child. There wasn’t running water, so he had used a wash pot. After that he called a neighbour he trusted to check up on Margarita while he was going to the market to buy enough ingredients to prepare dinner with.

In the following days he went straight to the Bolshoi to ask for explanations. “Margarita’s pregnant,” they told him, as if he hadn’t already noticed, like this explained everything. A pregnant woman couldn’t dance, and a ballerina who couldn’t dance was useless. There was no space for her in the Bolshoi.

Nikolai hadn’t even wasted words to insult them, since he had more pressing matters. Above all, he needed to convince Margarita to see a doctor to check on the foetus. At first the woman hadn’t wanted to because she considered the baby to be more like a parasite. It was a disgrace, something to be forgotten. With time, however, she had come to love the life growing in her and now was too scared to discover that her neglect had caused some irredeemable damage to face the problem.

Nikolai had to use all his power of persuasion, all the tricks to convince her. Margarita cried the entire time of the visit. She waited for the verdict drowning in utter terror, guilt cooling in her belly.

“The baby’s fine.”

And then and there, she knew she wanted to keep them.

The third guard duty rotation was assigned to Georgi and Yuri. They hadn’t many topics in common to discuss; neither were extroverted enough to force the other. Therefore, they spent the majority of time in silence; eyes vigil and ears awake.

Their departure was at day break.

 

On the second day, they managed to cover another forty kilometres of driving almost nonstop. They didn’t encounter any major obstacles and stopped not far from Adraskan. The ochre and fawn of the mountain and desert areas had replaced the rich emerald greens of the Herat valley. As they drove on, the trees became more and more sparse, and the same happened with cultivated fields.

The landscape changed little on the third day.

 

It was soon after five in the afternoon when the wind started to blow.

“What’s that?” Phichit cried, pointing at the cloud of sand that had appeared in the distance. It was big, gigantic, shaped like a bulbous, dry wave. It was rushing forward, spiralling in on itself. The locals called that monstrous wall of sand ‘ _haboob’._ Otabek was the first to give name to what everybody already knew and feared.

“Sandstorm!”

Yuri had always believed he liked sand. Born in a town on the seaside, he still remembered the sensation of wet sand under the balls of his little feet with Mari holding his hand. With sand he used to build castles and goofy sculptures, and even after having moved to America, the beach had always held a certain charm. It smelled like home.

But sand without the sea was simply torture. That boiling dust, escaping any fixed shape, crept under clothes, scratched the skin, and made it impossible to see.

“We have to stop!” Yuri shouted through the piece of cloth that was protecting his mouth.

“Negative! You’re free to stop, I don’t care, but you’ll do it without the truck and without the prisoner. We’re putting ourselves in danger, and you’ll stop for a little dust!” Plisetsky sputtered. “And you, don’t try anything funny,” he adds, talking to the mujahedeen. The man grunted something.

“Lieutenant, the fuck is he saying?”

Otabek gestured for the prisoner to repeat.

“That it’s too dangerous to advance,” he translated. Yuri Plisetsky groaned. He looked at Victor as if to blame him for what was happening. “With this pace it’ll be a miracle to even find the corpses!”

“It’ll be a miracle to find them if we get stuck in the sand,” Victor replied. In the urgency of the moment he had switched back to his native Russian. Plisetsky did the same. The sense of their argument, however, was understandable.

“Then it’ll be proof this mission was doomed since the beginning,” Plisetsky cried over the wind’s roar. Victor’s calm answer was cold.

“We stop, Captain. That’s an order.”

Plisetsky hissed. He bit down on grains of sand with gritted teeth.

“That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

Yuri had received instructions on how to deal with sandstorms. First in a sultry room, then in a tent, he had been warned about how dangerous they were; the theoretical lessons had focused on what to do and what not to do. Still practice was very different.

After a quick back-and-forth with Captain Popovich on the radio, they decided to take shelter in the covered truck. With urgency, they jumped out of the truck, which shook from the wind, and ran towards the other vehicle, but Yuri was shorter and slimmer than the others and had more difficulties advancing.

He lost his balance and tripped forwards, his body instinctively curled inwards to soften the landing. The sandstorm was swirling all around, a spiral that pulled from the ground all that wasn’t rooted down enough. Sand entered his ears, his nose, scraping the delicate mucosa. It smashed against his closed lips. It scratched the lenses of his glasses, crept underneath them, and wounded his eyes.

Yuri clawed at the ground, but there wasn’t any terrain in which he could anchor his fingers; only dust and hard and broken soil.

The wind would’ve blown him away.

“Katsuki!”

A familiar voice reached his hurt ears.

He felt someone grabbing his arm. He was pulled onto his feet, with the kind of strength reserved for moments of urgency. General Nikiforov’s arms encircled him and all of the sudden Yuri found himself with his face pressed against the man’s chest; one of Victor’s hands were protecting his nape. Victor was facing his back to the wind, which roared and hissed, whipping everything it could reach.

“Hold on,” the General shouted the instruction. His order was accompanied by a strong rope being tied around Yuri’s waist. JJ and Georgi, who were the strongest, held the other end. They managed to pull him back to safety.

 

Most of the squad had already found shelter in the covered truck. There was little space with the already present load, but necessity was the mother of invention. They moved some things, arranged others, and squeezed themselves into the available space. The wind clashed violently against the tarp.

 

“General?” Yuri tried.

Nikiforov lifted his head, surprise for being called by his rank evident on his face. The reason behind it, however, was still unknown to Yuri. He couldn’t understand it. It seemed like the other considered him an old acquaintance, an old friend, and expected to be treated with the same familiarity. But Yuri, before that day, had only met Victor Nikiforov in his own dreams and fantasies.

“Spasibo.”

The word exited his mouth in a strange, foreign way, with his accent tripping over every single letter. “Thank you,” he repeated.

Nikiforov nodded. “Anything for a fellow comrade.”

 

Yuri went back to resting his head on his knees, arms forming a loop around them. During the wait for the wind to subside, there was little left to do, besides staying still. Some time was used to review the route on the map. Mostly they spent the time watching and studying each other. Yuri, Phichit, and, as strange as it might be, Nikiforov formed a group on one side. Emil continued to buzzed around Michele, with Georgi within earshot. JJ was explaining to the last soldier of the group the rules of some card games, without the cards, though.

Otabek and Plisetsky stayed together to the side. It was at that moment Yuri remembered what he’d promised to do. He got up somehow, not without difficulty, in the cramped space, and approached them.

“Lieutenant Altin?” he called. When Altin seemed to have heard him, Yuri continued. He explained he would like to know the prisoner’s name. So it would be easier to address him.

“I thought you knew,” Otabek replied, frowning in doubt. Yuri understood his qualms. The man, the Soviets had captured, was a precious help and thus possible ally for the Americans. They said to have known him, and this fact had been confirmed. Still, Yuri didn’t remember the man’s name.

He searched for an excuse. In truth, information like the man’s name wasn’t something they were required to know. They knew him by sight. Yuri had seen him wandering around, talking with Leo and his squad. However, until now he had been only a face and a set of useful information to exploit to win the war.

“So?” Yuri pressed. He already spent enough time blaming himself for his past actions without needing others to adding to his guilt.

“His name’s Behrooz.”

Yuri repeated the name and waited for Altin to correct his pronunciation. He, himself, had trouble with others pronouncing his name correctly so he understood how important it was.

 

“Talking about names, what is your sister called?” Emil asked Michele. His curiosity seemed sincere, with no hidden agenda, and after all a name wouldn’t cause any harm. Thus, Michele resigned himself to say: “Sara.”

His sister. His twin.

“The person I hold most dear,” he added, each word heavy with meaning. The words hinted at an over-protective brother, but he righteously defended his lady from possible ill-advised suitors.

Sara was never fond of this behaviour. In America, she had grown up fierce, strong and independent; her summer holiday in Naples had just sharpened her character and tongue. Michele knew Sara had dated some men in secret, even before he enlisted. Now only God knew what she was doing.

Michele, however, had threatened Sara’s last boyfriend at the time of he most recent deployment.

“If I suspect you’ve done her wrong, I’ll come for you.”

 

“You must truly love your sister, Sergeant,” Georgi interrupted, like he had read Michele’s emotions. His eyes shone.

“Oh, look who’s here, dear old Georgi. I’ve started missing him,” Victor echoed from the other side of the truck.

Georgi ignored him. Michele wanted to point out once again that his sister was totally, completely off-limits. “Especially for creepy Russians like you.”

“Captain Popovich is the least creepy person ever. I can assure you,” Victor contradicted him.

_Despite having written a song to curse his ex-girlfriend._

 

“Also, the Tiger looks more like a Kitten when you know how to deal with him.”

Nobody doubted that Plisetsky’s silence was a sign of how much the Tiger would’ve liked to tear Victor’s tongue out, if only it wouldn’t have been borderline insubordination.

“Are you still angry about that story?” Victor insisted, when it became clear that not even Georgi was inclined in getting along. The consequent muteness was answer enough.

 

It didn’t matter how many years had passed, or how many times Victor insisted in bringing out the topic, Georgi Popovich would always be angry about _that_ story; even if anger wasn’t the right word. There had been anger, of course. It followed disappointment and preceded resentment. In the end, all of this had been replaced by dull apathy. Deep within him, Captain Popovich discovered he hated Nikiforov; digging even deeper he found the root of the feeling. It had begun way before the other caused their ruin.

Georgi hadn’t wanted to pick up a guitar since then because none could play like the one that was thrown out of a window that day.

The Soviet Army had been a conscription for both, at the beginning. Still Victor had shined even there. A brain that, until just before, had been immersed in the arts revealed a terrific coldness. Hands that had created life in dance and painting, proved perfect to manage a rifle. He could see things other people ignored and his superiors hated him for this, but couldn’t deny how incredibly good he was. Victor had soon risen above his station.

Again, his shadow covered Georgi, as it had always done since the day they met in that ramshackle apartment in Leningrad.

 

By the time the sandstorm calmed down, the sun had already set behind the mountains. The lower part of the sky was still clear, a mixture of cobalt blue and tiger orange as a last reminder of the disappearing sun light. An indigo blue turning pitch black at the higher part of the sky. The moon had risen, half-set in the sky. There were mutterings and protests about the precious time the storm had made them lose, but there was no other choice than to set the camp for the night.

Once again Plisetsky decided to sit and eat in a secluded area, accepting only Altin’s company. Once again Victor, who this time decided to sit not in front of, but next to Yuri, asked info about Leo’s squad.

This time Phichit talked about Private Guang Hong Ji and Major Christophe Giacometti. He told about how Guang Hong’s baby face hid a fiery spirit. “He trained in the Genius and was damn good.”

Both Phichit and Yuri remembered well the sentence Ji loved to repeat: _I’m not a man who dies in a ditch._

Victor, however, seemed more interested in the second name. “Christophe Giacometti, you said?” he asked. A sparkle of recognition twinkled in his arctic blue eyes.

“Yes. Do you know him, General?” Phichit asked, cautiously. Victor’s nod was almost imperceptible. “I’ve heard of him.”

He couldn’t say he had met Giacometti when he was younger and befriended him. Their last encounter traced back to almost twenty years before.

 

Victor and JJ had the first guard duty rotation. Phichit and Emil the last one.

 

The fourth day, much to Plisetsky’s joy, had no unexpected events to slow down their mission. At least until late afternoon, when proceeding with their vehicles became more complicated due to terrain. The already bumpy road narrowed abruptly. It proceeded uphill, the space just large enough to allow the passage of those on foot or horseback.

“Well, it seems we’ll have to leave something behind,” Victor considered out loud. No way could the trucks make it up the trail. The risks were too high of falling or getting stuck.

“A dead end!” Plisetsky shouted. Otabek made a gesture to silence him. Strangely as it might have seemed, Yuri Plisetsky obeyed.

“It’s the only way. And if not, it’s the fastest one.”

Establishing that proceeding on foot was the only viable option, nothing else remained to do but dividing the load. What they valued, what could be left behind. They considered most of the things indispensable.

“If we speed up, we can cover some miles before the sun sets.”

They dispersed into a single file. Otabek and Behrooz took point. Victor and Jean-Jacques brought up the rear. Yuri found himself in the middle, behind Emil and before Michele. The rucksack straps cut into his shoulders, but he was used to it. He adjusted them and hit the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was looking forward to writing and uploading this chapter. What a great occasion for some interaction between the characters. The episode of the sandstorm was in truth one of the first I've written the draft fro.  
> See you in around a week, more or less.


	6. Death Doesn't Discriminate

**Death Doesn’t Discriminate**

This time it was Yuri who was assigned the mid-shift guard duty. He wasn’t pleased with the outcome, as having to wake up in the middle of the night always disrupted his already difficult attempts to catch some sleep. However, he knew enough about duty, obedience and solidarity between comrades to refrain from protest, although the idea of asking Phichit to switch places flashed through his mind. His friend had much less trouble falling asleep than Yuri. Once he had asked Phichit what his secret was, a bit envious of the ease with which the other could drift in and out of sleep. In response, Phichit had told him something about meditation techniques and teachings derived from his Buddhist heritage; something about the importance of breathing along with certain long-forgotten tricks to quiet the mind. When the time came to put his friend’s suggestions into practice, however, Yuri had found himself more lost than ever. Moreover, if it meant anything, he had never been a very religious person, not in the last few years at least. His parents and sister, like most of the people in his hometown, were Shinto; when he moved to the US, he came across the wide variety of religions only a metropolis can offer. None had truly hooked him, though. He could still recite some prayers from his childhood, but so many years had passed since he had visited a temple, he could barely remember how they went.

To make things worse, he ended up being paired with Plisetsky; sticking to the pattern the squad had established on the first day: assigning guard duty to both a Soviet and an American soldier. Despite their extraordinary truce, indeed, they were technically still at war with each other and, as the saying goes, better safe than sorry. The sandstorm incident had bonded them together a little, more than they would admit in their current situation, but the stakes were too high to let their guard down.

In any case, Plisetsky didn’t seem happy with the arrangement either.

Apart from the brief chat they had had back in the Russian camp, the day of the American group’s arrival, Yuri hadn’t any chances to confront his namesake face to face. In truth, he had tried to start little conversations during the obligatory stops to eat; he had used simple diplomatic words that wouldn’t hurt anybody, carefully staying away from anything that could be perceived as an attempt to spy on Soviet secrets. His attempts, however, had always smashed against a thick wall of refusal. True to what Victor had told them, Yuri Plisetsky seemed to only accept and enjoy the company of Lieutenant Altin, his behaviour changed abruptly in the other man’s presence.

Hoping to get some sleep, he excused himself earlier that night. The temperature had fallen noticeably in comparison to the hot day, cold air crept under one’s clothes, which felt now a bit too thin. Yuri had never really gotten used to the cold, the need for warm well embedded in his genes. When he had moved to America, his first winter had been a slightly traumatic experience, then snow suddenly transformed from a nice, exotic, once-in-a-while pastime, into a cruel monstrosity.

He crawled into the sleeping bag, with the sudden thought that being paired with Plisetsky wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened. He could’ve still been assigned a guard shift with Victor Nikiforov.

Yuri had spent a good portion of his life admiring Victor, worshipping him. He had idolized Victor in secret, as a young Japanese-American adoring a Russian living miles away, who wasn’t even aware of his existence. He had caressed Victor’s blurry face in every cropped picture he could collect, with a mixture of reverence and fear, as he dared to imagine the impossible:

to talk with Victor Nikiforov. Phichit used to laugh, saying that Yuri was a very strange friend. And Yuri had agreed with him; for in the silence of his dreams, fantasies roamed uncontrolled and tapped desires so lewd he couldn’t even bear to define them.

He couldn’t sleep. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, unzipping the sleeping bag to free his torso. He touched his nape, brushing his own scalp, where Victor had grabbed him only few days prior. He could still feel the other man’s touch, strong fingers digging into his skull in urgency, Victor’s palm cradling his head in the storm. A shiver travelled from that point to the rest of his spine.

“You’re a fool,” he told himself, but unzipped the sleeping bag entirely and grabbed his uniform jacket. He also slung his rifle over his shoulder, for prudency’s sake. He cautiously climbed over Phichit’s sleeping shape and left the tent.

The beauty of the clear, starry sky froze him in place. The lack of artificial light within miles made the stars and the crescent moon pop out in the rich midnight sky, shining bright in the cold night. A gentle halo surrounded the moon, softening its lines.

It would’ve been easier to go back to sleep – or at least try and pretend to – but it was like a powerful and invisible force was dragging him to where his subconscious longed to be: the tent where Victor was sleeping across from his own.

 

Yuri moved carefully behind Nekola and Leroy, busy with their guard shift, and, before he was even aware of what he was doing, entered Victor’s tent. He bent a little over the sleeping man. A bubble of saliva was trembling in the corner of his mouth, not quite ready to burst yet. Yuri crouched to be neared to that face. There was a vertical wrinkle between Victor’s sleeping eyes, just above his nose. And then other lines at the corners of his eyes and lips, age and wariness starting to show on a visage that would soon reach its forties. Victor wasn’t still technically old, surely, he wasn’t in terms of others that held his rank, but he wasn’t young either.

In his sleep, Victor had pushed an arm out of the sleeping bag, and now it rested bent at an almost ninety degree across his broad chest. His head was turned towards the right and his fringe brushed the ground.

Yuri let his suspended fingers linger in the air, just a touch away from Victor’s pale cheek. It was the thin space of a hair, a wish, a bet. The man of his dreams was here, in the flesh and blood, sleeping with a face of innocence. Yuri felt his breath hitch in his throat. He curled his fingers and let his knuckles brush lightly against Victor’s cheekbone. It was a feather-light touch, more of a thought than action.

Victor groaned in his sleep, muttering with grogginess.

“Makkachin, be a good boy, go get the ball!”

The native Russian groaned around the words, too broken for Yuri to understand.

Yuri knew he had made a mistake the moment he indulged in the action. More than that, he had fucked up. He knew. He should’ve known that his gesture would have clear consequences; he knew he couldn’t get away with it. He knew Victor hadn’t climbed the military ranks just by being handsome and throwing flashy smiles all around, especially when the Soviet high ranking officials didn’t hold sympathy towards him.

He knew that Victor had more experience in the field, more than Yuri surely. In short, he knew his touch would wake Victor up, a fraction of second before it happened.

Yuri could have sworn he heard the noise of Victor’s eyelids snapping open. It was the rustle of a sail blown by the sea wind, a flick of butterfly wings. Silver eyelashes battered against skin, as Victor opened his eyes. Before Yuri could move, the arm that was lying on the man’s chest shot forward, and the Russian’s fingers closed around Yuri’s wrist. In reality there wasn’t any anger in the gesture, only surprise. It wasn’t an order or threat. It was a request.

Yuri, however, was too panicked to notice.

He freed his wrist with a twist and fell on his butt, hands behind him. He crawled backwards, not even thinking to bother getting on his feet; he hadn’t the time. He couldn’t think properly, embarrassment clouding his rationality. His blank mind couldn’t even think of an excuse.

He exited the tent praying Victor wouldn’t follow him. The man didn’t. When his tent entrance opened, Yuri held in breath of panic, but the figure was way smaller than Nikiforov’s.

“Oh, you’re already awake. Good!” Plisetsky greeted him.

Right, Yuri suddenly remembered, guard duty. He dug his nails into his palms to snap free from the trance-like state he always risked entering when something very stressful happened to him, and being a breath away from Victor Nikiforov was mountain levels of stress for Yuri. He even prayed for nothing to happen in the two hours of his guard, because he would never forgive himself if he had let his guard down from being too busy overthinking a foolish action. He didn’t want to repeat the same experience.

He was lucky.

 

The next morning Victor greeted him with a smile, as he munched on some kind of breakfast ration. “Had a good sleep?” he asked, and Yuri nodded, despite it being far different from the truth. He hadn’t slept a wink, even after guard duty, too busy to dwelling on his action to let himself drop into Morpheus’ arms. The fact that Victor didn’t bring up the subject at all, wasn’t helpful in the slightest.

 

 

The fifth day rolled around without anything noticeable happening. The landscape changed very little, even though there wasn’t really much time to simply look around. Besides, attention to their surroundings for danger was always required when moving in enemy and war-torn territories. Behrooz moved quickly and easily, despite his ageing body. His steps were sure, his breath steady, and more than once he had to stop mid-way to wait for the others. Yuri supposed that wearing soft shoes instead of their heavy boots has some advantages. The soles left traces in the dust, that following steps or the wind soon cancelled or confused.

By now the area had been nothing, but a monotonous mixture of ochre, sandstone and rust colours for days. Right in front of them mountains higher than the ones they were traversing blocked the horizon; it outlined rough peaks and pinnacles. The distant snow-cupped tops shined in the sun.

 

With each passing day, they had started to figure out advantages and procedures for their unique squad composition. If they ever came across a village or something even smaller, it didn’t matter what side it was. They would always split up, and let only the right people approach the locals. This made everything easier, lifting part of an invisible burden from their shoulders.

 

They had just restarted their march after filling their canteens, when Emil approached Michele, switching places with Georgi to be near him, and attempted to start a conversation. Michele wasn’t prone to talking at that moment, more willing to save his breath for the demanding climbs, mouth dry, back bent under the rucksack’s weight and legs aching in a way that was so familiar it hurt. Emil, however, as Michele had come to notice, belonged to the same category as Phichit or Leo. He radiated hope, positivity, and happiness. He had a sort of inner purity nothing could stain, and others were just, almost, forced to accept it, it was as if being angry in his presence was just not possible.

Emil’s English was barely passable, and Michele knew Russian wasn’t his native language either, so the question came easily: “Where are you from?”

Like this, a ridiculous curiosity. As he waited for the eventual answer, Michele was struck by the awareness of how little time they had. Time was slipping through their fingers like swirling sand or running water; an invisible clock was tickling, measuring each step they took, each pause, each hour lost. They hadn’t the time to stop more than what was humanly necessary – that already was a luxury – if they wanted to find someone alive. As such, they didn’t have the time to build any kind of relationship. They were strangers, put on the same field by fate, and they would remain strangers, roads soon to be parted.

But, he told himself as he dared to let a bit of his guard down, you could ask a stranger where he’s from and where he’s going to.

“Prague!” came Emil’s answer. It was followed by a five-minutes rant on how beautiful and rich the city was, about the history of its famous town clock and the deliciousness of its food.

 

Michele had heard about the not-so-lucky attempt to break free from the USSR’s long-handed control back in 1968 and how the country was still suffering the Soviet occupation as a punishment for its rebellious behaviour.

In reality Emil wasn't exactly from Prague, more of a small village in the area dominated by the Capitol City; one of those places nobody besides the locals knew about. The name on Emil's mouth was strange, hard with unknown letters, and Michele could barely understand it. 

Emil's native town was a thing that made Michele like him a little more; Michele too, indeed, had trouble explaining where his father came from. With time he had taken to the habit to say “Naples”, too tired to explain the location of a twenty-souls village. 

He told Emil.

Michele didn't know exactly how or why, but at a certain point the conversation shifted to Nekola insane – the new adjective courtesy to Michele's own thoughts - passions with sports that should be classified under the category "attempted suicide"

They were talking about their respective home countries, families, Sara, and hobbies. Right, hobbies. Emil's hobby was extreme sports. He talked enthusiastically about the adrenaline rush from free climbing or the rush of sheer joy that one bungee-jumping experience gave him. Michele shook his head, the way reserved for a person whose words and actions are borderline crazy, but listened nonetheless. He had noticed, indeed, that hearing Emil speak had the power to ease a bit of the weariness from both his mind and body. For a moment, he could forget about the ache in his limbs, and although he never let his guard down, he was more relaxed than he had been for days.

Another passion Emil had was sci-fi. He named authors Michele had never heard about, a certain Ćapek being Emil’s favourite, along with other more famous ones, Isaac Asimov being the most prominent.

 

 

They stopped when the light disappeared completely from the sky. It had been a surprisingly quiet day, a blessing from what they were used to, the atmosphere was lighter than usual. Even Plisetsky was affected by it, and although he hardly spoke with someone besides Otabek, he grabbed his MRE pouch and sat with the others. Only Victor, as strangely as it was, didn’t seem willing to indulge in small talk. Yuri wondered if it had something to do with what had passed the night before. He couldn’t bring himself to ask though.

With Victor having the first shift of guard duty, Yuri held his breath as they drew straws for deciding pairs. When the verdict was announced, he thanked the gods he normally didn’t believe in. He just felt a twinge of guilt at the sad, disappointed smile Victor gave him.

When he settled down for his guard shift, Victor’s face was back to a neutral, thoughtful expression. His apparent distraction was only a façade, his mind always ready even if he used the time to think, and he continued to do so during the sixth day of march.

 

As a soldier, Victor Nikiforov had often heard about the ghost limb phenomenon. Sometimes he wondered if something similar could happen with cut hair because there were moments when he could still feel it, the light tickle of his hair on his cheeks, back when it was longer. He could still sense the heaviness of his thick silver braid resting between his shoulder blades. Now it was his ghost braid.

Choosing to let his hair grow out in a feminine fashion had been the most major act of rebellion his twelve-year-old self could come up with. He remembered perfectly the nights he had spent in the cold, after his home door had been closed in his face. These images were burnt into his memory. When he was lucky there was this kind neighbour to offer him hospitality. Most of the time, however, he struggled to stay awake in order to not freeze to death in his coat, until his mother took pity on him and let him back in. Other times he would find shelter at school.

Victor endured it all to escape his father and those scissors that seemed to want to cut his very soul. He remembered all the tangles he had combed out with his shaky fingers, as he curled on himself to fight the cold.

On some lucky occasions, he spent the whole day at school, where a teacher had taken him under his protective wing. In the end, however, Victor had been expelled. He didn’t want to remember that day.

His mother had always defended him. She was short, a little chubby, but hard and strong like only women born in winter lands could be. She saw the war, she had fought in the Resistance, and was trapped in a marriage that had turned out completely different than what she had imagine. She had chosen her son over her husband without hesitation.

In the end, Victor’s father had given up, in a certain way. He stopped chasing him with scissors or kicking him out, but he never missed an occasion to comment about every flaw of Victor’s he could find. And since there weren’t many flaws to talk about, besides a seemingly bad memory, his father started to attack him about other things. He called him weak, girlish. Faggot **.**

 

And what hurt the most was that his father’s insults had a foundation.

Victor liked girls. He found them likeable, funny. He could also appreciate their grace and beauty. His, still, was a simple aesthetic appreciation, nothing more; the same he would’ve had with a nice flower or a pretty blouse. He deeply respected them, he enjoyed their company, he loved chatting with them at the occasion, but he didn’t like them like _that_.

Victor was almost fourteen when he had kissed a boy for the first time, and everything had become clear. He has long since forgotten the other boy’s name, blame it on a memory that had never been very good, but he remembered his face. He could still describe exactly the boy’s plump and reddish cheeks, his chestnut curly hair, and his frost light-blue eyes. He remembered the melting snowflakes trapped on the boy’s hair and lips.

That first, secret kiss had been the only one. It had been enough, however, to make Victor understand girls could never attract him the same way boys did.

Two years later he had thrown some of his belongings in a bag and ran away from home, jumping on the first train for Leningrad. He dreamt of a future filled with art and beauty. War was the farthest thing on his mind.

In Leningrad he met Georgi, with his sad eyes and his melancholy-filled songs. They had shared a small apartment for while, before Georgi moved in with Anya. He had come back eventually, after a rather disastrous break-up. During the meantime, Victor had adopted a stray dog to feel less alone. It was around that time he had met Christophe Giacometti, a Swiss boy not quite sure of what he was doing with his life. He too had been captured by Victor’s charm, only to develop one himself a couple of years after.

Despite what his friends thought back then, Chris hadn’t been his first time; neither had he been the first for the Swiss boy. They had slept together, though, with easy acceptance. It had been Chris, this shameless and sexy young boy, who helped him accept who he was. How he was born. Still, Chris has also warned him, concerned about his safety.

Victor had spent less than a year with Chris, but it had been enough to develop a strong friendship, enforced by the letters they had exchanged in the following years. They eventually came to a stop, though. Victor’s mail was thoroughly scanned, and the topics they could talk about became less interesting with each year passing. He had sent a Christmas Greeting Card about four years before, and since he had forgotten about Western habits to celebrate the festivity on the 25th December, he had sent it late.

To discover that Chris was in the squad they were trying to rescue was a shock Victor could mask only thanks to years of practice. He forced his mind to change subject before he could think about the worst scenario.

 

The day prior he had asked Lieutenant Altin, how far they were from their final objective. It couldn’t be much farther, knowing that Behrooz had ran to the Soviet camp in about five days; an impressive achievement, even considering that the man was rushing in panic for his life.

“One day maximum,” had been the answer. It pleased him. It pleased them all. They were not far from Gulestan.

 

Now, however, it was becoming clear that they might have celebrated too soon. According to Behrooz, they were close to where the ambush entangled Leo’s squad. However, as hours passed, no traces of recent human activity could be found to reassure them. The track had narrowed in a bottleneck, closed on both side by high rocky walls. Indeed, it looked like the perfect location for a trap, escape easily blocked on both sides, especially with soldiers not quite used to the terrain. When they finally exited the passage, the small clearing didn’t reassure them at all. While it was true the rock walls had lowered to show the sky again, the thin tracks rolled through the high rock, behind which a group of men could easily sneak in and wait. As they walked on, they tried to examine the terrain, looking for traces of what happened around a couple weeks before, but the weather and the passage of stray animals had muddled almost everything.

Behrooz suggested that Sergeant’s de la Iglesia and his men might have found shelter in a not so far cave, if they survived the ambush as the lack of corpses around suggested. He then indicated a point were the track bifurcated, one trail proceeding uphill towards a hole in the mountain wall. Yuri, Otabek and Leroy went to investigate.

 

There they found a broken radio, some bandages, traces of blood, and a couple of sandals, kids-sized. Whoever had stayed there, however, was long gone. Once they rejoined the rest of the group, Yuri took Phichit aside. He reflected as to whether or not he make Behrooz part of what he was about to say, but in the end he decided against it. Surely Lieutenant Altin would’ve approached them too, and what he wanted to discuss with Phichit was filed under “things the Soviets should not know about.” Not even the mujahedeen knew, the explanation he had given to the Russians after his capture was sincere.

“I guess Leo had decided to continue,” Yuri whispered to Phichit, barely moving his lips. Phichit moved his head just slightly, in agreement. The story about Leo’s squad doing a reconnaissance to examine a village was only part of the story, a façade. In truth, they should’ve been testing the waters for a meeting with some important local man. Yuri had no doubt that Leo had all the intentions to complete the mission, even when he had found himself without a guide.

“If they got lost, it’ll be a miracle to find them,” Phichit pointed out. Yuri shrugged.

“Let’s assume for now Guang Hong’s sense of direction was good enough. They have probably tried to reach the village alone,” he concluded. His voice, however, was heavy with doubt. Around ten days had passed since Leo and the others’ disappearance without an attempt to contact the base. If they had really found the village, why didn’t they try to communicate or to come back? The broken radio they had found just moments before explained part of Yuri’s doubts, but not enough to calm his heartbeat.

“Moreover, Behrooz has said there were children involved. That changes everything.”

_Let’s just assume they’re alive._

Back to the base of the trail, the whole squad started to discuss about what to do. Yuri explained his hypothesis, finding himself almost praying for the others to listen. The more he thought about it, however, the more outcomes his mind produced, and it was terribly difficult to choose one over the other.

“Did you explain a little about the road to the men you were supposed to guide?” Victor asked Behrooz, surprisingly in English without asking for Altin’s intervention. The man husked his eyes and muttered some words, but in the end he nodded. “A little.”

“Good. It seems clear that whatever we were expecting to find, it isn’t there. We’ll go to the village Sergeant de la Iglesia’s was supposed to reach. If we can’t find them there or on the way there, that concludes the mission,” he concluded.

 

They restarted the march soon after. As he walked, Michele tripped over his feet blaming it on his tiredness. The latest unforeseen event had only worsened things. Emil, who was walking right before him, stopped to offer him a hand up. Michele held it tight, even answering the other’s smile.

“You know, I was thinking that, maybe, I can come to Prague sometime,” he started, remembering with how much enthusiasm Emil had talked about it.

 

“Yes, that woul-,”

‘-be great,’ concluded Michele in his mind. But the words never actually left Emil’s mouth. They stopped on that last syllable, lips still twisted in preparation for a sentence he never had the chance to complete. He stood in place, eyes widened in shock; he had no time to comprehend what happened, before gravity came to pull him down. He dropped forward in one sharp movement, his eyes wide, his lips parted, his temple ruined by a bleeding bullet hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Motherfucking cliffhanger.
> 
>  
> 
> I guess I should say I'm sorry for Emil and I am (I've spent weeks debating whether or not kill him, but in the end this is a MIlitary Au and angst is my daily bread, so this be it). If you feel betrayed by the Emil's death, then I've done my job. Life can be a bitch and I wanted to show it.
> 
> Besides that, holy fuck, we're already half-way the whole work. Six weeks have already passed. Time flies so fast. Chapter seven draft is almost done and soon on its way to be betated.
> 
> Thanks for anyone who's still following me.


	7. Things Left Unsaid

**Things Left Unsaid**

Yuri didn’t see it coming. He heard it, a distant “pop” sound accompanied by a hiss, almost a whistle. He ducked as the bullet passed just above his head. He didn’t wait for another one, flight-or-fight instincts already dictating his actions.

“Take cover! Over 200 meters, 11 o’clock, unknown number!” Yuri shouted out the enemy location description instinctively.

 There were some big rocks on the left side of the road. They ran to hide behind them.

 

“We will split up,” Victor decided once there. “Captain Plisetsky, Private Katsuki, Corporal Chulanont, and Private Yegorov are coming with me. We’ll be the assault element and clear the field.”

They nodded. Yuri thought it was strange to separate Lieutenant Altin from Plisetsky, but when he recalled Altin was an interpreter, it made sense. As Victor and Captain Popovich discussed how to move, he felt a cold shiver running down his spine, fear and excitement mixing together. It was both a nightmare and something to be proud of. Victor had wanted Yuri with him, but for the most dangerous part. He quickly considered if he was allowed to contradict Victor’s orders and let Second Lieutenant Leroy go in his place. Yuri disregarded the idea soon after. No matter how good Leroy might seem, he still wasn’t as experienced as him; in addition, JJ and Victor didn’t seem to be on the same page **.**

He swallowed. As he took his M16 off safety and scanned for enemy movement, he thanked the gods he didn’t believe in for Phichit’s presence at his side.

 

It was quick. It was slow. It couldn’t have last more than seven minutes for sure, but Yuri’s stressed state slowed his perception of the whole event. Victor knew what he was doing, and he did it well. If Yuri hadn’t been so busy in avoiding getting killed, he would’ve only admired the spectacle that was Victor Nikiforov in action. During the days of the march he had gotten a taste of what the youngest General in Soviet history could do, but this was totally different. Victor was quick, cold, and precise.

They got confirmation of the enemy composition when they got close enough to see them.

“Must be two,” Victor considered, rifle armed and pointed. He turned. It was undeniable the ambushers had the upper hand, their canted position provided an advantage.

“We need to get closer. Get on the same level or above them,” Phichit reflected. Victor looked at the steep slope once again, scanning it for paths and concealment.

“Captain Plisetsky, I’m confident Lieutenant Altin has taught you well enough to climb a mountain. Here’s what we’ll do.”

 

According to Victor’s plan, Plisetsky and Phichit had to take a path uphill and try their best to not be noticed. This was to give them the tactical advantage of the higher ground. Meanwhile, the rest of the squad would take a shorter, albeit direct way. “The faster we can take down one without a direct fight, the better.”

 

Around one minute later, Yuri was curled behind a rock. Lifting his gaze, he could see two dot-like figures moving up above. He swallowed, waiting for an order. From his position, he could see the first man, his rifle pointed. The second must have been laying down not far away. To his right side, Victor was looking through the scope of his rifle. He lowered it and sighed. Yuri understood. The shot was unclear, gravity and terrain were against them. One wrong shot and it was over. The shooting had momentarily stopped, both sides unaware of their opponents’ exact positions.

And they didn’t have the luxury of waiting for a wrong move on the other sides part. Each minute was precious, and they already wasted way too much.

“I can take one in close combat. I’m good at it,” Yuri whispered. Long-distance shooting may have been Phichit’s speciality, just like strategy was Victor’s, but close combat was his field. Just as he was saying that, he heard a low whistle accompanied by a familiar pop and an eruption of imprecations in a language he didn’t understand but had come to recognize.

What happened next was something that felt like it was done by someone else. His body on its own. Under the cover fire from Private Yegorov he jolted forward, body ducked, hands on the rifle.

The familiar sounds of the gunfire filled his ears. He stopped caring about what was happening around him. The only thing he became aware of was the rapid two round burst pattern, the warmth of his rifle, the smell of hot bullets. The shells clattered to the ground, bouncing and rolling away.

Yuri tripped. He continued shooting nonetheless. One opponent was now much closer. So close he could touch him. How did he get so close?

Yuri shot.

 

And that was all.

 

Yuri brought his right hand to his face to remove his glasses and clean them. It was here that awareness struck him. The trance-like state adrenaline had caused was replaced by the heaviness of reality. The others had reached them.

Blood. He felt blood on his face. He saw blood on his hands. He lowered his eyes; blood was staining his trousers. He turned and saw Plisetsky bent over Lieutenant Altin, a first aid kit open near his knee. He turned again, on the other side: Phichit, who was helping Victor stand up, entered his visual.

Blood.

Yuri tried to get up on his feet, but a mysterious weight on them made him trip. He looked again towards the ground only to encounter the eyes of the man he had just killed. Objects’ outlines became blurry and confused. He kicked the corpse away from him.

 

Yuri knew the smell of blood, its taste, the way it felt on naked skin. He knew its stickiness. He knew all of this, he should. Yet, right there, the only thing he knew was that this blood was nothing different from the one _that day_ , under enemy gunfire, with his men asking for orders he couldn't give. 

This new blood made everything so much more vivid.

And he also knew what was about to happen, what was already happening. Nails bit into flesh as he recognised the so familiar symptoms of a panic attack. Still, it was no use. Somewhere in his mind a voice was telling him to breathe, deep and slow. But it was an order he couldn't follow. His chest felt tight, his throat closed on an invisible lump. He tried to inhale, but air refused to enter his mouth and go to his lungs. He breathed in fast, short-spaced hisses; a quick in-and-out, accompanied by the high-pitched sound of a whistle. Oh god, he was hyperventilating. He knew it wasn’t a good thing. He knew he had to stop. Yet he couldn’t.

 It was happening again.

 His men were desperate for instructions, and he couldn't speak. He couldn't even breathe. He just wanted to curl up in a hole and disappear. The lack of oxygen made his head feel dizzy. 

 

“Hey, what’s with him?” he heard Plisetsky sputter. What a strange thing. His voice was coming from a faraway place, he seemed worried. Soon after, the familiar sight of Phichit’s face entered Yuri’s field of vision. Yuri felt his friend take his hands, squeezing them. He didn’t resist. Phichit’s hands were sweaty but warm. There were rough calluses on them. There were spots of blood on them too. Blood.

Phichit held Yuri’s hands with such kindness. He spoke in a calm and steady voice.

“Yuri, it’s all right. Just try to breathe. Breathe with me.”

Easier said than done. Yuri forced himself to inhale and to exhale, with slow, deep breaths, following Phichit’s rhythm. He forced himself to focus only on the regular in-and-out.

“Better?” his friend asked when Yuri’s breathing pattern had acquired a semblance of normalcy. Yuri nodded. He let Phichit help him with standing.

 

The aftermath wasn’t as bad as it might have seemed at first, at least from their perspective. This, however, provided little to no consolation. Emil was dead; killed out of nowhere because they were too busy talking to pay attention to what was happening around them. They had been warned about how dangerous that particular place was; they knew it was here that Leo and the others had come across a similar fate. Yet they were still taken off guard.

Private Nekola wasn’t the only KIA. The soldier whose name Yuri didn’t remember, but had often seen in the Czech man’s company, had been killed, too.

Yegorov. It was Private Yegorov, right.

A blood red spot was staining the cloth of his uniform, on the right part of his abdomen. His eyes were still wide open in surprise, fingers clenched in the act of holding a rifle, which had been had jolted from his hands and laid nearby.

Second Lieutenant Leroy was checking the weapon.

 

Michele sat dumbfounded on the ground, arms hanging dead between his legs. Otabek urged him to stand up, but when Sergeant Crispino ignored him, he had to grab the other’s jacket and yank. “We have, we have to do something,” Michele muttered, voice hoarse in his dry, sticky mouth. “We have to do something for that,” he continued, raising an arm and pointing it towards Emil’s corpse.

“We will,” assured Victor, voice’s grave, as he tended to Captain Popovich’s superficial wounds.

“No, it’s my job,” replied Michele. He crouched next Emil with robotic movements. He kept his head ducked and his eyes fixed on what he was doing. He carefully stripped the dead man of all items that could be considered either useful or too important to let into enemy’s hands.

They hid the body between some rocks, calculated the body’s coordinates for future retrieval, and paid some respects. It was too quick and superficial. They did the same with Private Yegorov.

 

They managed to march for another couple hours before the sun set making it too dangerous to advance. They prepared the camp in utter silence.

 

“I’ll take the mid-shift turn,” Victor announced. The apparent kindness of his offer hid an order that brooked no arguments. Not that anybody had the will to do so. The recent experience had drained them all to the point of exhaustion. A thick cape of dumbness had descended upon them, slowing down thoughts and hopes in their fatigued minds.

They were all used to war, to its ups and downs, to death. It wasn’t a novelty; but it wasn’t something they had stopped caring about, each in their own way. Phichit had spent the past hour trying to make Michele’s feel better, helped here and there by JJ’s vain jokes. Sergeant Crispino had just shouted for leaving him alone, that he was fine, that he didn’t need to hear some funny story about a Canadian old lady. He sat down again, alone, Emil’s absence even more tangible than when his presence had been present. From the first day, Emil had always been with Michele, speaking to him, chatting with him, staying silent at his side, or keeping him company.

Plisetsky, to the contrary, oozed anger and poured frustration. “Fuck!” Yuri heard him mutter, voice forced to stay low and at the back of his throat. “Fuck,” he repeated, as his fist hit the ground to underline his words. English soon exchanged in favour of his native Russian.

 

“Have you decided your guard rotation?” Captain Popovich asked the US soldiers. They looked at each other, making the silent decision to spare Michele for the night. They didn’t even waste time drawing straws. JJ took the last rotation.

“I’ll take mid-shift,” continued Phichit. “And Yuri can take –”

“No, the mid-shift guard is mine,” Yuri replied. Phichit stopped, doubt visible on his face. He asked Yuri if he was sure. He was. He had spent the last few hours thinking about it, reflecting on the subject in the desperate attempt to decide whether it was a mere caprice or not.

Emil’s death had suddenly made it once again clear that anything could happen at any time. Of course, the thought of Victor Nikiforov’s dying while on field was more than ridiculous; the fact simply didn’t stick to his name. It didn’t sound right. And still, it could have been him in Emil’s place. It could happen again, and Victor could be the next causality, no matter how ridiculous the thought sounded. Yuri didn’t want to have any other regrets. There were already so many clawing at the back of his skull.

 

Yuri had spent years admiring Victor, pining, having him in mind. Now Victor was there, living and breathing just an inch away, and all of the sudden the fact mattered more than it did in the previous days. Before, just staying near Victor Nikiforov had been enough; Yuri had been more than content with it. Now, this wasn’t true anymore. Something had changed.

He needed to talk to Victor. He needed to say he was better than what he had shown. He was better than a man who couldn’t stand the sight of a little blood without going into hyperventilation.

 

“One would think you’d get used to it in the end,” Yuri started as soon as Victor had sat down. “Sometimes I wonder why I decided to enlist. Look at me! I’m dumb. I can’t even kill a man without throwing up.”

A joyless, soundless laughter shook his whole body. Tears of shame tingled at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t know if Victor was listening to him or not, but as long as the other wasn’t interrupting him it would be enough. Still, he prayed to stretch this moment forever.

“Yuri,” Victor began, hands placed on his thigh. “You’re right. I don’t think this place’s for you. But this doesn't mean you’re dumb or a coward.”

As he said this, Victor moved his hand up to Yuri’s shoulder. The man flinched but didn’t move. Victor’s hand felt heavy, but in a way that was almost reassuring. Victor’s hands had been on his back, his nape, his wrist, and now his shoulder.

 

Yuri chuckled, but there wasn’t any joy in it. _I started this for you. I admired you. I wanted to be like you._

This was what he wanted to tell Victor. He even whispered the words, so low Victor couldn’t hear them. His voice seemed to belong to a stranger. The words weren’t exiting his mouth, they already existed in the fabric of reality, appearing from thin air.

_All of this._

He wished he could tell Victor everything. He had planned to; he wanted to; he was ready. He believed he was ready. He wasn’t. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

 

It all had started when Yuri was fifteen, almost sixteen. The hot spring complex his family managed was enduring severe economic problems; blame was on bad investment decisions and a sudden drop in tourism in the area.

The changes for Yuri and his family hadn’t been abrupt. The Katsuki had always carried on a quiet simple life, but then Mari had stopped indulging in those little indulgences that were the norm just a few years before. The change crept slowly.

It was the little things: like Yuri’s school uniform that should’ve been replaced after he had grown so much during the latest summer holiday, but instead was still the same. It was in his mother talking to Minako-sensei, asking if she could continue to teach Yuri for half the price of the normal dance lessons, for the sake of their past friendship. Minako hadn’t asked for money a single time, apart from a symbolic sum Hiroko Katsuki insisted giving her that she was forced to accept. It was in Mari who was twenty-two and suddenly stopped talking about going to a good university; talking about transferring to Fukuoka or even Tokyo.

Mari hadn’t complained.

It was in the deep frown on Toshiya’s face as he examined the monthly budget, a pencil scratching his temples as if this could help him make sense of the figures. Costs were always higher than the income.

 

One day his parents called him. Yuri guessed it must have been something big from the tone of their voices. Mari was present too. They were strangely direct. No roundabout to sweeten the pill, no long way to say distracting simple things.

“It’s not a good period,” his mother commenced. She talked while wringing her puffy, tanned hands, thumbs brushing on their backs. “And this cousin of mine had offered –” she trailed off.

“He can host you for a while. Until things start to get better,” her husband intervened. Yuri was informed that this long-distant relative actually lived in Detroit. He nodded.

He didn’t really have a choice.

 

Before he was aware of the change, he was the host of a distant cousin, whose existence he wasn’t even aware of until he had been presented with an already made decision. The first days in the US were a culture shock. There was a kind of racism that still lingered in the minds of some people, the elderly, who were alive during events like Pearl Harbour. People called him funny-names. Some cruel teenagers mocked the way he talked, going around with fingers at the corner of their eyes to fake them being almond-shaped.

Sometimes nostalgia was so strong it hurt his chest. It made his stomach knot. It made him feel empty.

International calls were expensive and thus brief and rare. Yuri used to wait for those days with his head full of the words and the experiences he wanted to share with his parents and sister; he treasured the moments when he could pour both his frustration and eventual happiness into the phone speaker. Still all of that disappeared the instant he heard a familiar voice on the other side. There was nothing wrong. Nothing to worry about. Yes, he was happy. Yes, uncle Takao was very kind. Business was getting better? Oh, that was a great thing.

Yuko and Takeshi had married? Could Mari please send his congratulations?

All this while his sweaty fingers left fingerprints on the white and black plastic of the phone. Yuri pressed the speaker to his ear as if by simply doing that he could be absorbed into it and be transported back home.

He always ended up crying the moment he hung up. Big watery drops spilled down his cheeks, warm and wet, hands still clutching the phone for dear life.

 

About three years after he had moved, his uncle started to have economic problems, his financial condition worse than what he had at the beginning. Yuri well remembered his desire to continue his studies, to pursue a path different from a fate of waiter in the hot springs. Entering the Army had seemed like a plausible plan.

 

Now it was the most stupid thing ever.

Victor Nikiforov was already in his mind at the time. Yuri indulged in those distant memories. A young Victor was already on international newspapers and television. Yuri had heard his name on the radio. He wanted to be like him.

“I’m not like you,” he concluded instead, voice lowered to be barely audible due to his embarrassment. The knuckles pressed on his mouth suffocated his last words.

 

Victor Nikiforov. It had been like a lighting hitting his heart, from the first time he saw him in a quick shot during a report about the situation in Syria. Victor. It had always been Victor.

It had been Victor when Yuri was filling all the necessary documents and undergoing the procedures for the enlistment. It had been Victor when the Army became his reality. It had been Victor when Yuri decided to stick with the Army, pushed by a desire to prove himself, nourished every time some superior or even fellow soldier called him worthless.

It had been Victor when Yuri had his first in field experience.

 

It had been Victor even the day Yuri had been demoted.

 

On the seventh day of the march, the squad barely stopped. The speed of their pace increased, accuracy exchanged for the willingness to reach their objective as soon as possible. It was a nice day; the sky a rich sapphire blue, clear except for the high, whitish sun. They barely registered it, apart from the unforgiving warmth it irradiated. It burned their sweaty scalps, made beads of sweat roll down their backs where it tickled but couldn’t be scratched. The ever-present dust blurred the shape of their surroundings. As they walked along an edge, they saw looking down about four small groups of local houses dotting the valley. They eventually came across another village in the early afternoon, framed by the mountains. They would’ve barely noticed its presence if they hadn’t been desperate to refill their canteens.

 

No one lamented the lack of breaks. Behrooz had said the village was three walk days away, but added that the time could be reduced to two days if they sped things up. They did. At least, they tried. Moving on those narrow mountainous tracks was becoming easier, the muscles didn’t ache like the first few days, and their feet were steadier. Behrooz had to stop to wait for those who had fallen behind less and less. Moreover, their file had stopped following the tacit rule of alternating a Russian and an American soldier. If anything, the ambush had the effect of bringing them closer.

 

Yuri sprinted forward until he was just behind Behrooz. As usual, Otabek was there, as both a translator and Plisetsky’s guard dog.

“I want to talk to him. Would you please help me translate if necessary?” Yuri said. The Lieutenant pondered the request, he even darted a glance toward Plisetsky, but Yuri’s namesake was too busy examining his surroundings to care about a little chat.

“Go on,” Otabek agreed in the end.

Yuri gulped. He hadn’t truly thought about this. “You didn’t run away this time.” he started. It felt awful the moment the words took shape. “It was brave,” he added, the ghost of a smile on his dry lips. “It must have been awful.”

“It was,” came Behrooz’s answer. Yuri looked at him, brushing the sweat from his own dusty brow. His mouth had lost almost all his teeth and deep wrinkles marked his bronze skin. Still, he couldn’t be older than mid-forties. Two intelligent, teal-blue eyes glowed in the deep eye-sockets, under grey eyebrows.

“Do you … do you have any kids?” Yuri continued. According to the Russians, Behrooz had seemed deeply concerned about a group of lost children Leo insisted on helping. The answer was affirmative. He had three grown boys, two already married, and a soon-to-be teenage girl. He had nephews and nieces too; the youngest still drank milk from his mother bosom, the oldest was almost a man himself. Yuri preferred not to ask how the war had touched them.

“You’ll see them soon,” he said instead.

“This is for us to decide,” came a familiar voice. Yuri turned. He hadn’t noticed Plisetsky was so close that he could eavesdrop. Despite not having said anything threatening, nothing that could enrage the Soviets, or put their truce in danger, he felt his throat closing on words luckily left unsaid. Behrooz’s fate hadn’t been openly discussed. In practice, he was still a prisoner in Russian hands. In theory, Yuri had come to believe the Soviets would eventually let him go at the end of the mission. He wasn’t so sure anymore.

“We’ll discuss it when we reach the village,” Plisetsky decided, much to Yuri’s surprise.

 

Yuri Plisetsky was the first to be surprised by his own words.

Plisetsky remembered Victor’s word about considering the prisoner, no Behrooz, to be like a normal grandpa. But he wasn’t. His dedushka was a honourable man. His dedushka would’ve never run, away abandoning his fellow men. They had nothing in common and they would never will.

 

For Plisetsky, his grandfather, Nikolai “Kolya” Ivanovich Plisetsky, had been everything.

Margarita never fully recovered from the violence. She got back on her feet again, started to actively searching for a job – she found a not-so-bad-paying one as cashier in a little shop – but she stopped being happy, being truly happy. After Yuri’s birth, Nikolai tried to convince her to insist on being re-admitted into the Bolshoi’s company. Indeed, in a few months Margarita could have easily gotten rid of the little weight put on during pregnancy, and it would take more than a year’s pause for her body to forget all the exercises embedded in her muscle’s memory. She was still young, younger than twenty-five, with all the possibility to still grasp a bright career. No need to worry about the baby, Kolya would have taken care of him while she was at work.

In the end, Margarita accepted to contact the Bolshoi’s director. There she insisted to be still as flexible as before. Her legs were still strong. Her feet were wounded, blistered and covered in scars, with broken and blackened nails, but could well sustain her body in a perfect arabesque pose. She had strong calves, strong knees, and nonetheless strong thighs. They shut the door in her face, claiming that now she was a mother she had to act accordingly. The Bolshoi wasn’t the place for her anymore. Meanwhile, another girl had taken her place as the possible next Prima, a ballerina she indeed knew and had been on friendly terms with.

“I don’t need to be a Prima,” Margarita bargained.

“Go home,” they answered.

 

One of the things Yuri Plisetsky remembered best from his childhood, apart from his mother’s sad smile and the way her eyes always filled with tears when a classical piece came pouring down from the window of one of the fancy palaces where Moscow’s high-society lived, was poverty. Nikolai Plisetsky had a small military pension, enough to live with dignity, but small in comparison with the status of others who had advanced more, both in military ranks and inside the Party. Margarita had to work overtime, and more than often Yuri was left in Kolya’s care. The old man was, for the baby, as close to a father figure he could have. He mixed old lullabies with war songs when was time to put Yuri to sleep.

When Yuri was a toddler, Kolya used to wrap him in a thick coat, a big woollen scarf, and soft mittens and took him to walk around the city. Sometimes, when the snow that covered the streets in winter was too high, he took his grandson on his shoulders. If they ever passed by a war memorial, Kolya narrated to him war stories from his own past. Yuri’s listened with his mouth agape, excited eyes peering from under a beanie too big for him.

 

Yuri was ten years old when Lilia Baranoskaya noticed him. They met by chance while Kolya was accompanying Yuri home from school, one hand holding the younger’s and the other curled around the leather schoolbag. The woman had passed by, stare glued to the horizon, head held upright to make her look taller than what she already was. She had stopped after a meter, twirl around on her heel, and came towards them. Yuri recognized her first.

Lilia Baranoskaya was a living legend in the world of ballet, her name well known to every person that had even just a little smattering of the subject. At age sixty-tree, she trained the younger generations of ballerinas, when she wasn’t busy choreographing some rising star in figure skating and gymnastics. It was said she was a stern, iron-like teacher, inflexible and demanding. _But it was worth it._

“Nikolai Ivanovich,” she greeted Yuri’s grandfather. “And you must be Margarita’s son,” she added, looking down at Yuri. No affection softened her hawk-like features, the severity of her traits enhanced by the tight bun her hair was held in. Yuri stared at her. After a pat on his back, he managed to answer: “Yes, ma’am.”

Lilia nodded, visibly satisfied. Then turned again to Nikolai.

“I hope Margarita’s doing fine.”

Lilia was perfectly aware of what Margarita Plisetskaya had undergone, no need for Nikolai to recap it. The woman pursed her thin lips in disapproval. When she had heard the whole story of how the Bolshoi had treated one of her most promising ballerinas, Lilia had been furious. Cold-blooded furious. If it hadn't been for some dancers, full of potential who had trained and were still training hard under her attentive guidance, she would've left the theatre. 

“He has the same body structure as her mother. I see a lot of potential,” Lilia commented about Yuri. If the family was interested, she knew a good ballet teacher, who could provide a special price for talent. 

“We'll think about it.”

They did. Margarita begged Yuri to at least try the lessons. Yuri wasn't sure, ballet linked more to sufferance than joy in his mind. But he also loved his mother, and his mother hadn't been so enthusiastic in a long time. He promised to try.

 

The dance lessons weren't really his thing and he soon dropped out, as he didn't share that same passion that had been burnt into his mother’s soul. The experience provided useful nonetheless, as a well-known female painter who used to attend the theatre to use the dancers as models for her pictures noticed Yuri during one of her visits. 

“Beautiful,” Olga Krylova exclaimed, pointing at Yuri, who was in a fifth position with one hand resting on the ballet bar. “Come here, child,” she called. Yuri looked at the instructor, waiting for permission. When it arrived, he walked carefully towards the woman, back straight and feet only brushing the wooden floor. Olga circled around him, examining his slender childish body from all angles, and praised the fairy-like features of his petite face. 

“You are the muse I was looking for,” she declared at the end of her examination, much to Yuri's dismay. 

In the following weeks, two things happened. Yuri stopped the dance lessons, and Olga Krylova rang the Plisetsky's door, re-iterating her intention to use the kid as a model for a series of paintings, which he would’ve been the perfect subject for. The work would've been paid, well paid.

If not the only one major reason for Yuri to accept. 

Olga's house was big, but old and smelled like turpentine. Her studio was located opposite of the door entrance, thus at every visit Yuri would get a glimpse of a fancy salon, a spacious dining room, and a luxurious bathroom. Olga was a demanding painter, always asking for strange, ballet-like poses, and complete immobility. Yet she was also kind, and she never missed a chance to treat him with a buttery biscuit or a slice of cake, all accompanied by a cup of hot tea, sweetened with milk and jam. 

 

Yuri was her model for almost four years, the years he recalled with more fondness. Eventually, puberty kicked in. It was kind with him, adding height without burdening his thin body and elvish visage, but he wasn't what Olga wanted anymore. They swore to leave on good terms, but as it often happens, they lost contact.

Yuri enlisted at eighteen. He had two role models in mind. Grandpa Kolya, that was certain, and the one Victor Nikiforov, who was already a legend. 

 _I can be better_. Yuri told himself, as the local radio praised once again Victor's deeds. 

_I'll be better._

Yet escaping Victor’s charm was difficult to the point of impossibility. Once he had come to watch the training of the younger soldiers, Yuri Plisetsky happened to be among them. Victor’s praise was cold, technical. 

“Your combat skills are good, but you move too much. And you exhale always a fraction of second too early when shooting,” was Victor's critique. Yuri gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in frustration, but listened and made sure the advice didn’t slip from his mind. He hated Nikiforov for his words and hated himself because he was ready to eat from his hands if that meant having more useful advice. He needed Victor’s knowledge, and that was unbearable.

 

About two years after his enlistment, Yuri was transferred. He'd met Otabek soon after. 

Otabek Altin was slightly older than him, didn’t talk much, and had both caring and intelligent eyes.

“You have the eyes of a soldier,” was the first thing Yuri recalled Otabek telling him. “You may be the Russian Fairy, but you have the eyes of a soldier.”

He fell in love right away, a feeling he couldn’t quite name at the time. There wasn’t time for love in his life, not now that people had started calling him Ice Tiger. Yet he found himself craving both Otabek’s company, first, and then his touch. The more he climbed through the ranks, the more his affection for the Kazakh grew. When Lieutenant Altin was transferred in Afghanistan, around four years before, Yuri used all his means to be transferred too. He asked his grandfather. He asked Yakov Feltsmann, a political officer, that Yuri had come to know as Lilia’s former husband.

He asked Victor. He swallowed his pride. He ignored Otabek’s pleas to change his mind. He ran faster than his own fear.

“People do foolish things when they fall in love,” Victor told him. Yuri replied love had nothing to do with his decision.

“You, young people can be so blind.”

Victor left before he could reply. Sometimes, the answer still itched at the base of his throat.

 

“Something on your mind?”

Otabek’s voice made him reconnect to the present. He gulped down some water to get rid of the itchy sensation. “Nothing.”

 

That evening they set the camp, as usual. They drew straws for the duty rotation, as usual. They did everything as usual, only that the day before they had lost two men. Phichit tried again to lift Michele’s mood because it was painful to see him eat alone. He wasn’t much more successful than the first time. As they left the morning after, they watched silently as Michele’s packed Emil’s items in his own rucksack.

“I’m fine,” he told them. It was just another lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well well well. Finally some action, which has been a pain in the ass. A true pain in the ass. Military actions had never been my sweet cup of tea and I kept asking myself "Why am I doing this?"  
> As for those who expected something about Michele, don't worry, it'll come with chapter 8. For this chapter, I wanted to show Michele's shock and denial by avoiding focusing directly on him.  
> My beta will be away next week, so there'll be no chapter next Friday. The draft for it is well in construction and is getting longer than my usual. It'll be full of happenings, so be prepared. I guess I can say it'll be one hell of a ride.  
> Some tissues will be useful.  
> See you le 15th April.


	8. As Predictable As Where Lightning Will Strike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while since the last updating, but some problems have impeded me from posting this chapter earlier. I warn you, it’ll be quite full of happening, both sad and happy, with a character death in the end. Thus I advise you to avoid it if you don’t want to be sad right now. There will be some minor mentions of homophobia, discrimination and gore.  
> Having said that, I’ll be waiting at the end for other notes.

**As Predictable As Where Lighting Will Strike**

 

Phichit Chulanont was right. Emil used to snore. As strange as it might be, Michele missed that noise. 

Since Emil’s death he had desperately tried not to think about it. If the thought ever appeared in the back of his mind, Michele was quick to subdue it, shifting his attention to anything else, even if it was his aching feet. He was well aware that if he had let himself indulge in the land of mourning, even for one second, he would’ve been unable to go on. 

It was stupid. He was well aware of the fact. He had barely known Emil Nekola, having spent time with him for just a few days. If Emil hadn’t died, their roads would’ve probably parted with only some hair thin promise as their last connection. Yet he could not stop neither his heart from hurting nor his mind from caring about it. His mind cared so much, it was making his heart suffer.

Michele had to admit that Emil’s jovial nature had made the mission a little more bearable. His joyous chatting, which Michele had always been so prone to shut down in a vain attempt, had made his rucksack a little less heavy.

Goddamit, even focusing on Emil’s terrible snoring had been helpful in forgetting the outside world and falling to sleep.

 

The first, solitary tear was cold against Michele’s cheek in the still wet morning air. It dried before it could reach his chin. 

Then a second followed, a pearl drop lingering on the conjunctiva. It slid down the olive skin. 

Michele dried it with an index fingerprint, keeping his head low so that nobody would notice. It was a personal thing; a thing for him and only him. 

He bit his lips as a hiccup formed in his throat, the right counter for the sudden pain in his chest. It took advantage of the single moment of weakness and surged from the deep pit Michele had exiled it.

Michele’s face twisted. He kept it obsessively ducked. Tears fell onto the ground. He battered his eyelashes to get rid of them. They blurred his vision; he dried them with the back of his hand, in a single and angry movement.

 

Emil’s death had been unfair. It had been the kind of bullshit God would have to answer to in due time. But then, what kind of man’s death on field wasn’t unfair?

Sara would’ve liked, maybe even loved, Emil’s cheerful and bubbly personality. Michele had no doubt he would’ve been jealous and would’ve put up a fuss to keep the Czech away from his twin sister. Sara would’ve scolded him, lamenting about the lack of independence, and without even knowing how, they would’ve found themselves together eating in some cheap yet nice restaurant, the place being of little importance.

“Of Czech authors, I know only of Kafka from my school days,” Michele had told Emil, the day before he died. The day before he was killed. Emil hadn’t died. Dying is lying in bed, slipping into another life because the time on this Earth has naturally ended. Emil’s time hadn’t naturally ended. There was nothing fucking natural about Emil’s death.

“Did you like him? Personally, I think I’m too stupid to understand him.”

“I found the idea of waking up as a giant beetle to be disgusting,” Michele replied, his upper lip pursed in disgust. Emil had laughed.

 

The worst thing was that sometimes, when the mood was light and the mind rested and slipping back into the routine, Michele forgot Emil was no more.

 _Emil, pass this! Emil, do that, quick! Quickly, I said!_ Only to remember Emil wasn’t there.

Tears prickled at his eyes once again.

 ***

 The temperature had got colder as the altitude augmented in the passing days. The tracks Behrooz was guiding them through had always bent a little uphill, with unexpected peaks here and there. Sometimes the tracks descended to be nestled between two mountain walls, where sporadic and semi-arid streams ran before disappearing again into the ground. They travelled on the sides of the mountain or on top of them, before sliding down once again. There was no doubt that the possibility of crossing the area in a straight line would’ve helped them save at least one or two days of walking, but it wasn’t the case. Instead they had to follow the way imposed by Nature, geography bending them to its will. The different climate condition from the altitude, had Yuri and Phichit lamenting its effect more than anyone else, forced the squad to more frequently pause here and there, to catch their breath.

 

It was during one of those pauses that Plisetsky caught Victor staring at Yuri Katsuki; staring more than usual, to be precise.

He approached the General the very same evening.

“Why don’t you ask him to stay?” Plisetsky huffed. Victor looked at him, blue-eyes wide in sincere surprise. A sad smile curved his lips, creating a grid of small wrinkles all around.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? Don’t use that bullshit of the Iron Curtain and all of that,” Plisetsky warned him, a finger raised to prove his point. Victor sighed, chin posed on his intertwined fingers. He watched Katsuki, chatting with Chulanont some metres away. He had the brightest smile Victor had ever seen. He wished he could know what had made him smile like that.

“He doesn’t –“

A voice normally so sure trailed off on the sentence.

“Love you,” Plisetsky concluded for him. Victor ducked his head in acceptance. For once the Russian Yuri didn’t speak with disgust, annoyance, or scorn, like he was used to. His words were serious; full with something that Victor could even dare to call concern.

“Yeah.”

“Then you’re blinder than I thought, Victor.”

He stood up and left before Victor could articulate a proper response, or even a justification. Victor’s head dropped. His shoulders raised along a hopeless sigh. He rubbed soothing circles on his temples to prevent an impeding headache he could feel already rising from the back of his head.

Yuri Katsuki had stopped laughing, but the aftermath still showed on his delicate features. He had an arm slung around Chulanont’s shoulder, hand tapping on his bicep.

Victor buried his head in his palm and groaned, angry with himself.

 

It wasn’t the first time someone accused him of being blind. It had happened also when he was younger, happily living day-by-day in Leningrad. During that period, it was the end of January of 1968; he had met a charming girl with a fast tongue and, rare occurrence, an even faster brain. Chatting with her was a pleasure.

Georgi had warned him against the girl. Victor hadn’t listened. Yelena was too charming and gentle to be a threat.

Then, one evening, she had tried to go beyond normal, playful seductive games. They were in her small apartment, a pair of still steaming, half-eaten plates on the countertop. They were sitting: Victor on a chair; Yelena crossed-legged on the floor. The radiator clattered and whined. Although it was already late April, the weather was still cold, especially at night.

At one moment, Yelena surged up from her position and began to straddle him, pretty nails brushing against the cloth of Victor’s shirt and combing through the silver strands that fell to the man hips. She freed them from the restriction of the elastic band, pushing a tuft behind Victor’s ear.

“I like your hair. I like you,” she whispered in the very same ear, as hands trailed down, drawing distracted circles on the man’s chest. “Like, I really like you,” she specified. She grinded down against Victor’s clothed cock, took one of his hands from around her waist and placed it on her breast. Her mouth lingered on Victor’s pursed lips.

“No!” he cried, pushing her away. She was small, and he was strong despite his slender build. She fell onto the floor. Victor scrambled to his feet, backing towards the door.

“I’m sorry. I don’t. I can’t,” he blabbered, disgust sending willies throughout his entire body. His friends were right.

He heard her shouting something as he rushed down the stair without looking back. The following day he knocked at her door with a little bag at his chest containing a single, warm _sladkay bulochka_. Yelena loved those.

“Lena!” he called after five minutes of waiting without anyone coming to open the door. “Yelena! I’m sorry!” he called again, the pastry going cold under his fingertips. The bag was greasy, but the smell coming from it was divine. Victor knocked again, a bit louder this time, knuckles beating against the wood.

“It’s useless!”

Victor turned. On the landing stood a bald man with a nice beard, his hand curled around the smoothed pommel of a walking cane. Victor recognized him as Yelena’s old next-door neighbour, the one living in the flat to the right.

“Excuse me?” Victor asked.

“If you’re looking for Lenochka, she’s gone,” the old man clarified.

“Gone?” Victor parroted back, as if he hadn’t understood what he had just heard. The old man nodded. “Yes, she had a little suitcase with her.”

“Has she told anyone when she will come back?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh. Well, thank you. Please accept this, I’ve lost my appetite.”

He gave the man the pastry meant for Yelena.

 

In the following days, despite his friends’ suggestions to forget about the woman or, if that wasn’t possible, to at least wait a minimum of a week before knocking again at her door, Victor made it a habit to ask the doorman if Yelena had returned from her journey or if she had left any message. The answer was always a negative. Apparently, Miss Lapchenko didn’t intend on coming back anytime soon. Indeed, the landlord had been given the permission to search for another tenant; since the flat was cheap and the flow of young students searching for a roof never lacked, a new tenant was indeed quickly found.

About a month had passed without any news about Yelena’s whereabouts, except for the illusion of having thought to have seen her look-a-like on the Prachechny Bridge. When a stranger in semi-formal attire approached Victor, he was sitting outside the Alexandrisky Theatre, hands buried in his pants pockets. A loose braid held his hair in place.

“Victor Bastilevich?” the stranger asked. Victor raised his gaze from the man’s knees to his eyes. He stiffened. Normally he loved to meet new people, but for the last few days he had been stressed out by the constant sensation of being followed and watched. “Yelena sent me,” the stranger insisted, when Victor made no sign of acknowledging his question.

“I’m afraid I’m not the person you’re looking for,” he hastily answered, scrambled to his feet, his head was spinning at maximum speed. There was something suspicious about the man, enough for Victor to wish to put some metres – no, kilometres – between them as quickly as possible. “Now, I’ve got to go,” he mumbled.

When he went down the first secondary avenue, he noticed he was practically running.

 

Victor jumped out to his stop at the metro, glancing around to check if the man was still in sight. He wasn’t, but this fact didn’t reassure Victor at all. He took a deep breath to calm down, fingers fidgeting with his hair as he rushed outside. As running would give him unwanted attention, he forced himself to slow down his pace.

“My girl’s sick,” Victor made up an excuse as a woman in her mid-fifties shot him a suspicious look

Once in front of the building where he lived, he scrambled with the keys and rushed up the stairs.

 

“Something wrong?” Georgi questioned, after Victor had discarded his jacket and flopped on the chair, brow beaded with a sweat not caused only by the sizzling summer heat. Some silver threads were plastered to his forehead. Victor sighed, explaining the situation in between huffs.

“Did you walk here or take the subway?” Georgi inquired, eyebrow quirked upward.

“The subway,” Victor replied. Georgi made a face.

As soon as Victor realized his mistake, it was already too late. The door was smashed down a moment after. 

A couple of men burst in, guns in hand. A third one stood on the landing. Victor recognized the stranger. His mind quickly connected the dots. Sadness and betrayal surged in his chest.

Victor had heard stories about KGB’s repressive actions against people not conforming, but he had always considered the idea of being involved in one of these stories to be ridiculous.

Behind him, Tatjana was lying on the bed, propped up on her elbow, breasts exposed; Sasha, who was holding a brush mid-air, screeched. There was a pile of just developed shots on the nearby table, mostly in black and white with Victor being the preferred subject. The most recent, however, showed Tatjana and Sasha engaging in Sapphic behaviour. Some papers contesting the way the Soviet Union treated its citizens were scattered around, especially on the floor; a half-written paper was still on the typewriter roller.

Still, the first thing that got the KGB officers’ attention was an old guitar hanging on the wall. A Superman sticker decorated the sounding board, just under the bridge. Here and there the gloss had been scrubbed, showing the nude wood underneath. One of the officers took the instrument from its hook, weighted it, and then held it out of the window.

Georgi cried, as he jolted forward, hands stretched out to grab his precious instrument. They closed on thin air, as the guitar fell two floors and smashed onto the solid concrete. It broke in the middle. The D chord cracked like a whip.

 

***

Victor spent the first few days of jail in an isolation cell, eyes fixed on the ceiling with fingers buried in his now messy, short hair. A purplish bruise was forming under his left eye, looking a little swollen. It hurt to keep it open. A pounding headache made a vein pulse right behind the eye socket.

The toilet must be clogged as the air was stale. Victor buried half of his face into his shirt.

 

He was dozing off into an agitated sleep when the cell door opened and a guard accompanied by a man who clearly wasn’t a guard, judging from his clothing, entered. The guard forced him awake and out of the bed without any compliment. Indeed, as Victor continued to show signs of grogginess, the guard thought it well to shower him with a bucket of ice-cold water. Victor fought back tears.

Somehow, he was led to another room, where the only furniture was a steel table and a table lamp whose bright and whitish light hurt Victor’s eyes.

The man from before took a seat on the other side.

“Victor Bastilevich Nikiforov,” the man said, inspecting a paper. Victor stared at him, wide-eyed; fingers tightened around the edge of the table.

“Son of Bastil Dimitrievich Nikiforov,” the man continued, voice heavy on that first name which spoke of a very patriotic family, a flaming revolution, and a legacy Victor had betrayed. Born in the early 1920s, Victor’s father had been one of the several children who received a revolutionary name to better celebrate the people’s victory against the old regime.

The name felt like hot lead in his stomach. He twisted the hem of his shirt. He watched the man once again, saw his mouth moving, but he couldn’t quite grasp the words the man was saying.

“I know your father, he’s famous. He’s too good of a man to deserve a son like you.”

Words were spat out with scorn and disgust. “But no more worries. Your father will finally have the son he wanted. I guarantee it,” the stranger told him. Victor didn’t bother to answer.  

 

As if the statement provided by Yelena Lapchenko hadn’t been enough to put him under suspicion, the evidence collected after a due inspection of the apartment had provided sufficient material to charge him and his friends guilty of anti-Soviet agitation, wrecking, corruption of the youth, engaging in homosexual relations.

“I’ve heard that Siberia’s lovely this time of the year,” the man mocked him. Victor felt tears filling up his eyes. His grandfather on mother’s side had spent ten years in a gulag, and the stories he had brought back were horrifying.

“But, your father is a friend of mine and I don’t feel like sending a friend’s son to Siberia, no matter how much you deserve it. So, here’s the deal.”

 

The choice Victor was put before was utterly simple, as clear as a frozen lake in mid-December. On the one hand, he had a lifetime sentence to a gulag by any other name. “You wouldn’t survive a week.”

On the other, “You can join our Army. There’s always a need for new blood. So?”

Victor remained silent, dull eyes focusing on the opposite wall. Here a short-term death sentence. There a long-term death sentence. Or maybe it was the other way around.

“I’ll give you an hour to think about it.”     

As soon as the man left the room, Victor started to shake, hands trembling in tension. He stood uncertainly on his feet, sunk to his knees and punched the wall. Entering the Red Army would’ve meant betraying almost all he had fought for. Just recently he had heard on the radio how the Soviet Government had repressed the attempted rebellion in Prague. The memory made him cringe. If he had entered the Army, he would’ve been an accomplice.

Still, the exile in Siberia was something he couldn’t even bring himself to think about. The thought of having to leave behind Leningrad or Moscow, the ever moving city, its colour and life and sounds, clawed at the back of his mind.

Victor buried his face in his knees, hearing the long distant, croaked voice of his mother’s father, that wrecked man whose toes had fallen from frostbite and who asked for a blanket even in July.

He didn’t want to become like that.

 

“So?” the man from before inquired when the hour had passed. Victor communicated his decision with the voice of a man preparing to be sent to the gallows.

 

That night he didn’t sleep.

He swore he would survive. And for doing so, he had to be the best. He had to be the man he had always tried to escape, the man his father wanted him to be. He had to put on a mask to preserve his real self; a thick wall so that they couldn't touch his most inner dreams and thoughts.

He had to become that Victor Bastilevich Nikiforov, if he wanted Vitya to survive. He went to sleep repeating that whole name, a name he had avoided for years, like a mantra.

 

The Red Army was a slap in his face. There wasn’t any art or music, besides the bare essentials to glorify the Motherlnd. Vitya had loved the rare, upbeat songs that came clandestinely from the other side of the wall. Now, he hated the martial choirs that the speakers sometimes diffused on the air. With time he, however, came to accept them because it was music nonetheless, and it was better than nothing.

It was during one of the days when the soldiers reunited for the visit of some minor, yet quite important dignitary from the Central Committee and were singing the National Anthem that Victor noticed Georgi. He was in the file ahead. 

 

When the soldiers were given the permission to disperse, Victor raced towards his friend. Once close enough to be seen, he greeted him, smiling politely. He waited for his presence to be acknowledged. Georgi simply ignored him, turning his back to chat with a fellow comrade. The following attempts weren’t any more successful, and Victor’s fast rising through the ranks just seemed to worsen the problem.

But then, Georgi – no, Jora – had been friend of Vitya’s. He had nothing to do with Victor Bastilevich Nikiforov. Victor Bastilevich Nikiforov had no friends. He didn’t have the time.

“I’m sorry Vitya, but if you want to survive, you need to go somewhere else,” Victor whispered to himself, as the sting of pain from Georgi’s rejection rose in his chest.

And young Vitya indeed went somewhere else leaving for longer and longer periods, until he simply didn’t come back.

 ***

 

By the time he crossed the threshold into the room where the American officers had organized a semi-formal dinner, wearing a plastered on smile, Victor Nikiforov had long since forgotten how it was to feel true emotions. It was November 21st, the dinner was held immediately after the Summit during the last three days in Geneva; the Soviets were invited as special guests for a “cultural exchange”.

“They just want us to be zoo animals on display!” muttered Plisetsky, though unable to hide the pleasure of having been invited.

“You still have time to not go. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind”

“Are you crazy?! They’d have to pry the invitation from my cold dead hands.”

 

From what the circulating stories had told about the Americans -among rumours about their lack of discipline and their very crass behaviour - the first hour of the dinner was to be extremely boring. The Soviets wandered around with stiff postures, shifting more and more towards the walls. Then, as the first glasses of alcohol poured, the atmosphere lightened.

Plisetsky was among the first temerarious enough to try the mysterious liquid in the giant bowl displayed on the main table. He took a sip, spat it on the floor making face, and proceeded to take another one. “I don’t know if I hate or love this stuff!” he said, giving his judgement.

Victor took a glass himself, looking around.

A petit but well-defined man stood next to the buffet table. His traits immediately got Victor’s attention. Seeing Asian features wasn’t a common occurrence during similar meetings.

“Victor Bastilevich Nikiforov,” he introduced himself with a charming smile on his face. The man raised his gaze, cheeks a bit flushed. “

“Yes, I know,” he answered, voice trembling. He stuttered a little on the last word.

“But unfortunately, I can’t say the same for you,” Victor remarked. The stranger’s slender fingers curled around the glass. He took a sip.

“Katsuki Yuri.”

Victor repeated the name under his breath to memorize it. Katsuki looked at him over the brim of the flute, eyes squinting as he wanted to see right through him. They were foggy.

 

“How many glasses have you had already?” Victor asked carefully. There was already at least one empty glass posed near Katsuki’s hand when the conversation had started. Then another three had followed in the short span of the introduction.

“Dunno. Five. Six. Not enough.”

Katsuki peered down at the still half-full one he was holding. He made a face, shrugging a little.

“The great General Nikiforov is talking to me. I must be already drunk,” he considered, talking more to himself than to anyone else. This having been said, he downed the rest of the drink throwing his head back. His Adam Apple bobbed once. 

“And since this is only fruit of my imagination, I may as well fuel it,” he continued, filling yet another glass. The brownish coloured liquid in it sloshed. Katsuki brought the glass to his lips, took a sip, and raised it in the mockery of a toast. The grog distorted his delicate features. 

“If you now could excuse me, I have important business to attend to.”

He almost giggled at the last part, voice groggy and heavy. The words tumbled down from his shiny lips. Victor nodded, stunned.

 

“Vitya, close your mouth,” Yakov told him, just passing by. Victor snapped his hanging jaw shut.

He didn’t expect to run into Katsuki Yuri a second time. If so, not in the way it happened. 

In the - how long could it have been? - ten minutes they spent apart, Katsuki had managed to drink around other ten glasses of whatever mixture had been poured into the giant bowl on the main table. It was a wonder he could still stand. His legs indeed seemed a little wobbly

Suddenly Victor was unable to take his eyes off him, physically unable.

Katsuki kept pulling at the collar of his uniform, as if it were too tight. Behind the skewed glasses two warm brown eyes shone in drunken fever. 

Without any warning, Katsuki literally threw himself against him, arms hooking around his neck with innocent enthusiasm. Oh, dear god, he had on the most adorable pouty face in existence. It was even cuter than Makkachin’s, his poodle, and that said a lot.

Besides, Katsuki Yuri wasn’t just adorably cute, a fish out of water in a meeting full of officers whose average age reached the fifty; he was bold, or stupid, or maybe both.

Victor bit his suddenly dry lips as Katsuki’s groin grinded against his. The man’s hot mouth approached his left ear, about ten scandalised officers bearing witness to the scene.

Not that Katsuki seemed to care a little bit. Neither did Victor, more interested in those wet lips against his ear’s shell.

When Katsuki spoke, he did it in a blabbering mess of English and a language Victor recognized as Japanese; all without stopping the enthusiastic brushing moment against Victor’s body.

“You know. It’s truly unfair you live in the Soviet Union. I love you and you live so far away,” Katsuki griped, voice low and whiny, words distorted in the drunkenness.

“If I were a spy, would you take me? I can be a spy. I’m a good spy,” he giggled, a creamy sound, inhibitions all gone due to the alcohol. 

 

Lot of things happened to Victor in the span of the next few seconds. He froze in place. He started hearing an imaginary alarm ringing “danger”, written in big, flashy, red capital letters. He wondered what would be the best thing to do with Katsuki.

‘Escort him back to his room!’ ordered the rational part of his brain. ‘Let him be, I haven’t had so much fun since 1968, when Georgi got terrorized by a stray cat!’ replied the other not-so-rational one.

Victor’s heart pounded against his rib cage. He felt a warm, fuzzy feeling blooming in his chest, opening like a blossoming flower and spreading like a spring sun.

He also noticed the sappiness of his own thoughts. He didn’t even know his mind was capable of such sweet nothings. He hadn’t come up with something like this in a very long time. The long-forgotten image of a long-haired boy dancing in the just melted snow in _Ploshchad Iskusstv_ crossed his mind.

 

Victor’s brain was already spinning at full speed to come up with a good plan to knock Katsuki unconscious and sent him to his apartment in Leningrad – Mila would’ve surely take care of some minor, nasty details – when a man in his sixties approached them. He tapped Yuri on the shoulder. Katsuki groaned, pressing his face to Victor’s chest.

“Corporal Katsuki,” the new arrival said, but the voice was less threatening than it was amused and exasperated. Yuri groaned again, rubbing his face harder on Victor’s shirt.

“Corporal!”

Eventually he let Victor go. The other man made an embarrassed and apologetic expression in Victor’s direction.

“I’m sorry, normally he doesn’t drink so much.”

 

_Don’t be._

 

“Finally,” Yakov sighed, appearing from nowhere at Victor’s side. “Americans!” he exclaimed, making a disgusted sound to better express his opinion about the matter. “They never change. I think they’ve gotten worse.”

He turned just in time to notice Victor’s dreamy expression.

“Forget about him, Vitya. I know that face. Don’t do anything stupid. KGB contacts are for important matters,” he warned him.

Victor nodded, making the best impression of being a good and responsible citizen was he could manage.

He called Mila anyway.

*** 

 

When Victor had announced his decision to call the Americans, a week prior, Yuri Plisetsky had waited for possible prying ears to disperse before dragging him with an excuse to where nobody could eavesdrop. When alone, Plisetsky stopped caring about any respect for the hierarchy. “Victor, I don’t know what you’ve told Yakov for him to go along with your ideas, but I’m begging you to reconsider endangering us all for your vain hopes to chase a past crush.”

Victor had blinked. He opened his mouth. He closed it.

“Yura, what are you – I don’t –“ he stuttered. Yuri made a ‘don’t try to fool me’ look. It quickly disappeared in favour of some truer concern when no smug look came to cancel Victor’s puzzled expression.

“You truly haven’t done this on purpose,” he considered.

“Of course, why would I?”

 

Yuri had decided to believe him. Only to grab Victor by the ear once again when Yuri Katsuki had made his appearance. Victor looked so up in the clouds, it made him sick.

“You told me you hadn’t – I believed you! Ugh,” he exploded, voice on the verge of shouting. He waved an accusatory finger toward Victor.

“I hadn’t. I am as surprised as you,” he assured and Yuri be damned, he seemed sincere. The waving finger was lowered.

“You didn’t?”

“I didn’t.”

 

Once again Yuri Plisetsky had chosen to let him get away with it. After all it had been Victor that helped him through the suffering of accepting himself and to confess his feelings first to his heart and then to the person they were meant for. The very same Victor who, the first-time Yuri had made sign of knowing the other’s sexual preference, had grabbed him by the wrist and ordered to keep his mouth shut in the coldest tone of voice Plisetsky had ever heard from him.

 

***

 

“Then you’re blinder than I thought.” That was what Yura had said.

 

Victor reflected on who Yuri Katsuki, the true sober Yuri Katsuki, was the few days spent together. Absentmindedly he brushed his fingertips against his right cheek, where Yuri had touched him. He recalled Yuri politeness, rigid behaviour, and his shyness. 

Yuri’s keeping calling him General Nikiforov. Yuri’s treating him with all the due respect and deference for a superior

The image of Yuri being everything you would expect from a highly-trained soldier flashed his mind, along with other pictures of a broken man in the wrong place. 

Yuri’s terrified gaze as Victor held him by the wrist, pleading for him to stay. Yuri's running away, face deeply flushed. 

Yuri’s shifting side gazes on him here and there, brown eyes sparkling in the frame of his thick glasses.

Yuri's little but sincere chuckles echoed in Victor’s memory. Yuri's soundless, mournful laugh wounded him, deeply.

He promised to keep careful watch of Yuri this time. He swore to try to get to know him better, going beyond the thick wall of bias and expectations he had keep up till now. At the beginning, he had been sure Yuri would’ve been the same, charming man who had so boldly declared his willingness to betray his own country to please a crush. When he had seen him sitting on an American branded jeep, just outside the border of the Soviet camp back in Herat, he was certain they would’ve continued from where they had stopped. The fact that three years had passed since the occasion seemed irrelevant.

Instead, Yuri Katsuki had acted like he barely knew him like he didn’t know him at all.

 

He doesn't remember, Victor told himself, realisation setting in his chest and down to his stomach. Everything of what Yuri recalled from that Geneva Summit was probably only a terrible hangover, accompanied by a good shovel talk about proper behaviour. To be sure, he decided to ask the person who had seemed to be the closest to Katsuki Yuri: Phichit Chulanont.

 

“Corporal Chulanont, may I have a word,” Victor started, approaching the person in concern as they have just stopped for the evening. Chulanont had a moment of surprise, which was quick to subside. He gave him a bright but polite smile. More than a smile, it looked like a smirk in truth. The kind you would expect from a best friend who knows all his friend’s shenanigans and secrets, and is ready to go down with them.

“Sure, General. What is it?”  
Victor didn’t beat around the bush. “Has, by any chance, Private Katsuki ever told you something about a Summit held in Geneva in November 1985?”

Phichit made a thoughtful face, lower lip being bitten in time with the increasingly deeper wrinkles crossing his forehead.

“Not that I can recall. I was on a mission at the time, and when I finally met Yuri again it was already late April. He told me something about having drank too much, to the point of having illusions of talking and dancing with you,” Phichit finally answered, a finger tapping his chin as if the gesture could help him remember of some hidden details.

 

That night he arranged to have the same guard shift as Yuri.

“Life's ways are strange,” he considered, thinking out loud. Yuri made a thoughtful sound. There was a wrinkle of focus in between his brown eyes.

“Strange enough for us to cross paths, indeed,” he conceded.

Yuri’s cheeks had a little curve, the suggestion of softness; mellow ivory-tanned skin outlined by the moonlight. It looked like it would have perfectly fit into the cradle of Victor’s curled palm, thumb brushing under the chin, jaw resting on the juncture between thumb and index, pinkie finger leaving feathery-soft touches under Yuri’s eye. Victor leaned forward, just a little.

Yuri lips were pink, puffy. A perfect cupid’s bow designed his upper lip, now and then pulled up with the rhythm of a conversation to show white, small and sane front teeth. Yuri took a sip from his canteen, rose tongue darting out to capture a runaway drop before it reached his chin. Victor found himself staring.

There was something alluring about Yuri Katsuki, an inner sensuality and a flame burning under layers of reticence and self-doubt. He was oblivious and thus an ever more dangerous enchantress; and if a kiss may break the spell, Victor was ready to indulge in it.

 

“Have you heard anything?”

Yuri’s words made him snap back to reality. He kept an ear out.

“No, not really,” he admitted, brow furrowed.

Yuri sighed. “Yes, probably it was nothing. Sorry, I’m a bit on edge.”

“We all are,” assured Victor, as he curled his fingers inward.

If Yuri Katsuki had been killed because he was too distracted by a foolish Russian’s man attempts at flirting, Victor would never have forgiven himself.

He let his hand drop.

 

***

The tenth day found them some miles away from Baghran, the same ochre terrain and mountains of the past days, and the borders drawn on the map were the only signs they had moved from one province to another. Otherwise Yuri would’ve barely registered the change. Maybe looking from a native’s eyes, he would’ve seen the beauty of the place, its inner secrets, but as he was then, the only thing his eyes saw was a never-ending expanse of sandstone mountains and flatlands.

 

“There’s the village,” Behrooz announced, index finger pointing at a group of houses still half hidden by the rocks in the distance. Victor watched through his binoculars, adjusting it according to Behrooz’s directions. The binos focused on the picture of a stone-made shelter with two figures – men, from their clothing – gesticulating outside. Victor shifted the binoculars, hoping to catch some signs of Leo de la Iglesia’s squad’s passage. He didn’t have any luck.

 

The track had widened, so they changed the arrangement from a line to a column formation. Being closer to their objective sent rush of excitement and expectation along their skin. It gave them energy, but it was also a problem, precautions were lowered with the sensation of being almost there. A day, maybe less and Yuri could hug again Leo and the others. All of the sudden he had no doubt about them surviving. The past few days had been hard, long, and weary. On some occasions, it had seemed a nightmare, but now it was over, a few more kilometres, one last camp at night.

It all shattered in a fraction of a second.

 

A _clicking_ sound was all it took.

 

“Guys, I think I may have a problem here.”

Phichit’s troubled voice attracted their attention. They all froze in place. Otabek and Plisetsky who were ahead of Phichit, but on the other side of the road, turned around. Their expressions looked hopeless. Otabek stared at Leroy, who was just opposite of him and communicated a silent message. It bounced back all the way to Victor.

Yuri was about to rush forward to his friend, but Victor held him by the sleeve. “Everybody, don’t move,” he ordered.

“There could be mines,” he added. _Other mines._

A surge of nausea twisted Yuri’s stomach. He dropped his stare to his feet, afraid of finding them near or even on one of those things. He had no doubt all the others were doing the same inspection.

Why there? How could have this have happened? Was it there a way to solve the situation? Was the path mined even ahead?

Was it all a trap as Plisetsky had warned days ago?

They didn’t know.

 

The only thing they knew for certain was that Phichit Chulanont had stepped on a landmine.

“How much do you weigh?” Victor asked, voice forcefully steady.

“145 lb,” Phichit wondered. “I hadn’t been weighed in a while.”

“It’s useless asking him that. It’s one of ours, we can’t disarm it,” Plisetsky retorted, crouched carefully besides a sweating Phichit to examine the landmine.

“Wait, what do you mean you can’t disarm it?” both JJ and Michele echoed, for once in perfect unison. Yuri shot Victor a pleading look. _You’re Victor Nikiforov. You’re Victor “no mission failed” Nikiforov. Do something._ But to his dismay, Victor seemed as lost as any other.

“I knew I should have brought it!” muttered Plisetsky.

 

As the Americans were told, this kind of landmine could be disarmed only using a special chemical liquid, which was highly corrosive and unstable and in most of the cases provided useless, killing both the victim and their wannabe saviour. Without such liquid at hand, it became almost impossible to cheat the mine.

“We may try to deceive it with some other weight,” Yuri proposed on the verge of desperation.

“No,” replied Victor, brow furrowed in a silent mental calculation.

Before Yuri could protest, Phichit reinforced the message. “He’s right. You’ll need a minimum two – more three – rucksacks, and you can’t sacrifice them.”

 

They all ducked their heads in silent acknowledgment of the situation. On any normal occasion, they could’ve survived with two or three less rucksacks, being close to the end of the mission and that the possibility of calling a copter to pick them up was at hand. But in this case, they had to return by foot, at least down to the valley, probably taking a different road.

The loss of a rucksack and the items inside might make the difference.

“And we don’t know about Leo’s or the others’ conditions,” Phichit continued.

 

“I can take your place,” Yuri offered, voice shaking and full of desperation. “We weigh just about the same”. Phichit shook his head.

“It's nice, a gesture well expected from a good friend like you, but you can't,” replied in a sad voice. It was the resigned voice of a man who had accepted his ill fate. It made Yuri shiver. “I can’t allow that,” Phichit added.

“Just fucking watch me,” Yuri shouted, already taking a step forward. He was about to take another, and then another, and another one, as many as necessary to save his friend, but Victor grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back. He wrapped his strong arms around Yuri's chest. Yuri struggled to get free, crying and shouting insults and pleas at both Victor and Phichit. 

_Let me go. Let me go. Lemme go. Please. I still have time. He still has time._

“There must be another way,” Yuri bargained.

“There isn't,” Phichit sighed.

“There's always another way.”

“Not this time.”

 

Phichit didn't deserve this. He was a brilliant man, a good soldier, and a wonderful friend. He had a head full of dreams he had yet to achieve. Yuri instead was replaceable; in comparison, he had no special quality. The world could live without him. He had no dreams of glory to fulfil; it was just like Plisetsky had told him, he was a useless, old soldier who couldn’t do anything right.

He tried to break free from Victor’s grasp, taking advantage of his hand-to-hand combat skills, but the other was taller and stronger and soon Otabek was there helping him. 

Yuri continued to fight nonetheless, when they tried to drag him away.

_I wanna watch. Lemme go. You have to stay. You have to watch. It’s your fault._

_It’s my fault._

 

He wanted to watch. He wanted to be witness of the fact. He wanted the shame to be burnt into his eyes and memory for as long as he would be alive. If he had turned, the ghost of what he hadn’t seen would hunt him forever.

_It’ll hunt me forever. Please death, be quick. He doesn’t deserve this._

Warm tears fogged his glasses. They felt salty on his lips.

Phichit was a good soldier, and as a good soldier, he tried to be useful to his comrades up to the very end. Yuri saw his best friend giving him a bittersweet, farewell smile as he made his rucksack strap slide from one shoulder, the pressure on the mine still enough to prevent it from exploding. 

“Tell Leo I'll see him in Hell,” Phichit shouted, as he slipped the rucksack off from the other shoulder with the intention of throwing it away. Just as he did it, Plisetsky shot him right between the eyes, a fraction of second before the explosion.

The rucksack was blasted uphill, in a cloud of dust, debris, flame, and flesh. It landed some metres away, charred but mostly intact.

 

Yuri started running forward, but Victor and Otabek were still holding him back. They told him it was useless. It was too dangerous. He cried. He didn’t care. He also wanted to claw out Plisetsky’s throat, a sudden rush of anger surging in him. _You shot him! He still had a chance to survive! And you shot him._

As the dust dispersed, Victor gave Georgi the order to take the rest of the squad and start moving. “You go too, Lieutenant Altin.”

The only ones who stood behind, apart from Victor, were Plisetsky and Crispino. They waited in an awkward silence for the air to clear up after the explosion and show the aftermath.

Corporal Chulanont was nothing more than pieces of flesh scattered all over. The impact had forcefully separated Phichit’s torso from his legs, sending them some metres over. A fragment had impacted the man’s chin, forcing the head open. He was missing an arm.

 

Yuri bended over and threw up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you’re free to hate me. Yes, I’m a bad person. Honestly, for this fic I’m following the unwritten rule for which the worst things often happen to people who deserve them the least, so Phichit seemed perfect. The scene was in truth less anguish at the beginning, but then it developed into what it had become.  
> I worked hard on this chapter, so maybe some comments would be appreciated. Remember that my ask box on tumblr (gwen-chan.tumblr.com) is always open.  
> Chapter 9 is on the go.


	9. The Last Miles Are Always The Hardest

**The Last Miles Are Always The Hardest**

 

“Here, drink this.”

As he heard these words renewed gagging shook Yuri’s entire body, forcing him to bend over once again. A bitter taste invaded his mouth, the leftover lunch in his stomach ended up on the ground. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, yellowish acid strings hung from his chin. He wrinkled his nose at the strong smell.

“Drink!” repeated Plisetsky, shoving a canteen under his nose. Yuri took it with trembling hands, taking an unsure sip. The water barely poured down his throat as a new surge of nausea forced it back up. Yuri coughed, a muddle of acid, water, and spit sputtering all over. Under Plisetsky’s look of disapproval, he grabbed the canteen and tried to take another sip, slower this time. He used the water to wash his mouth, sloshing it from cheek to cheek, before swallowing it.

Yuri cleaned his hands on the front of his trousers. His throat burned. On his dusty face, tears had left two pale trails. Crust was forming at the corners of his eyes. He sniffed. He then dried his nose on his sleeve, which was so dirty by now that some mucus wouldn’t have made any difference.

 

Phichit was gone. It was the only thing Yuri could focus on. Phichit was gone, and Yuri couldn’t do anything to change his Fate. He could still hear his friend’s laughter from the evening before, the appropriate response for some silly story that Yuri had ended up mangling, but Phichit had laughed all the same. Phichit’s laugh had been a cure-all; his jokes were the rope Yuri used to escape the pit of depression he’d fallen in after shouldering the blame for his entire squad’s death.

And now the rope had snapped.

He felt himself drop to his knees. Phichit was gone, the only person who had ever believed in him was gone, so there was no use in going on. He had always been a burden. His family had been so quick to send him away when things had started to go wrong, as it’s normally done with a burden. After all no one here considered him useful, neither his comrades or the Russians.

Especially Victor Nikiforov; Yuri had seen the way he looked at him, the sadness in his eyes. He saw the disapproval that lingered in those ice-blue irises; the disappointment hidden beneath the kindness.

 

Plisetsky grabbed him before he could touch the ground.

“Not now!” he hissed and started to walk, dragging him along. His pace was fast; his manners rude. Apparently Plisetsky didn’t care about him dislocating a shoulder, as long as he kept moving.

“He’s right,” echoed Michele, passing on the other side. “If you stop, it’s the end.”  
“But the body!” Yuri protested, fighting against the two, uselessly. Despite his slender body, Yuri Plisetsky was a strong man. He yanked Yuri while Michele pushed him, an open palm right between his shoulder blades.

“Please save us the effort of knocking you out and having to carry you!” Plisetsky threatened. He soon after added, “Victor is taking care of it.”

 

He then looked over his shoulder to assure that everything was fine. Yuri tried to imitate the gesture, but Michele prevented him, slapping his nape.

“Don’t watch!” he hissed, hand still pushing on Yuri’s back.

_I have already watched, I want to watch, just fucking let me go._

_Just leave me here._

 

This was what Yuri would’ve liked to have shouted.

 

“It’s no use,” he simply muttered under his breath. “You can let me go,” he continued, feeling Yuri Plisetsky’s fingers still hooked around his wrist, like a teacher would do with an unruly child. His request landed on empty ears. Plisetsky yanked him forward till they had put a few miles between them and the place where the deed had been done

While walking in a pitch-black, blurred pit of despair and numbness, Yuri barely registered Behrooz saying that less than a day’s march separated them from the village. The information entered one ear and out the other. _Has he said something?_

 

That night Yuri took his rations and sat by himself, struggling with the image of Phichit’s body clawing at his mind and twisting his stomach. He ate in miniscule bites, chewing on the dry food and hating himself because Phichit was dead. While he continued to feel thirsty and hungry, as if nothing had happened.

He fell asleep from exhaustion; as soon as he closed his eyes, his friend’s eyes started to haunt his dreams, forcing him to wake up in a bath of cold sweat. The starry night was beautiful as always, the moon distant and mocking. The rabbit on the moon was working like it always had done since the moon had first been in the sky.

 

The morning after found Yuri strangely, forcefully cheerful.

 

“Good morning, lovely day, isn’t it? If we move we can cover ten miles before nine!” he woke the others up, lightly kicking their sleeping bags to force them out of sleep. “Come on, we’re losing time!” he insisted, rolling up his sleeping back at record speed. The horizon was not yet tinted by the pinkish and orange hue of the dawn. The higher part still had the velvet blue colour of the night. Venus shone in the distance, as the moon slowly faded.

 

After all, Phichit would’ve been sad if he knew Yuri had cried. It was like how Michele had said: you can’t stop.

 ***

 

“You think you can fool me?”

As he sat in the shade, the midday scorching sun obliged them to pause for a while, especially after JJ had shown the first signs of a heat exhaustion, Yuri lifted his gaze from the canteen he had been examining just then. Plisetsky stood there with his hands on his hips, the image almost funny. With that pose, he seemed more like an angry housewife than a soldier.

“Excuse me?” Yuri replied, voice deadpan. He could swear seeing a vein swell on his namesake’s temple. Yuri Plisetsky closed his fists; then decided to open his arms to underline his exasperation.

 

“This!” He stomped his feet for maximum drama effect. “You’ve been so disgustingly full of energy since this morning. It makes me sick. People don’t react like this to a comrade’s death –”

“Phichit wasn’t a comrade, he was a friend,” Yuri corrected him without skipping a beat. There was a deep coldness in his tone, signalling how dear the difference was to him and wouldn’t allow a second mistake.

As usual Plisetsky didn’t care. He had never cared.

“Whatever, people don’t act like this,” continued Plisetsky. Almost amused by his distress, Yuri’s lips quirked upward, in a hollow grin than didn’t reach his eyes in the slightest.

“Would you prefer for me to cry, throw a tantrum, and be a burden?” Yuri suggested, closing the canteen without giving it a second look

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Are you sure?” Yuri insisted, surging to his feet. He was shorter than the Russian, but with his back straight and head high he could more imposing than what the eyes gave away. Plisetsky took a step back.

“Isn’t t what you’ve been waiting for all day? To see my breakdown? To prove your prejudices? What better moment than now? The only person who believed in me is no more; it’s a matter of hours before I’ll go to pieces. What are the bets, tell me!? What are the bets on this old Private?”

 

Yuri was on the verge of shouting, a shower of words pouring from his mouth with all its venom charged with hate and self-doubt. “And you, above it all. I bet you killed him to watch me fall,” he sputtered, accusation heavy with every word. Oh, that condescending smile of Plisetsky’s was burned into his memory.

“What the fuck you talking about?”

“You shot him!” Yuri snapped, voice rising. Carefulness be damned.

“It was an act of mercy!” Plisetsky hissed.

“He could’ve survived!”

 

Yuri was shouting now.

 

The slap came from out of nowhere. Plisetsky hit him hard on the cheek, so hard Yuri’s head turned as he fell to the ground. He spat out a tooth, blood and saliva staining the collar of his uniform.

“I have all intentions to punch you until you’ve come back to your senses,” Plisetsky warned, fist already half raised. “And I’ll punch you too,” he menaced towards Leroy and Crispino, who were approaching, attracted by the commotion. There had been four Americans. Now the number had been reduced to three, two of whom were struggling.

 

Yuri sat for a moment on the ground, examining his tooth, the left canine.

“So?” Plisetsky questioned. Yuri did not say a word. He simply crouched, curling his knees to his chest; he jolted forward to return the punch.

Yuri didn’t like to brag, but he could proudly claim, albeit mostly to himself, that he had a talent for hand to hand combat. 

The thing was being the kid that other children used to pick on had forced him to learn how to defend himself, if he didn’t want his bento box being stolen on a daily basis. It had been that same ballet training, which other boys mocked him for, that gave him both strength and agility.

He ducked as Plisetsky charged forward with another punch aimed towards his cheek. 

He heard Captain’s Popovich distressed call for them to stop, along with Victor’s orders to leave them be. “It’ll be a special exception, Jora.”

Yuri paid dearly for the moment of distraction, as Plisetsky successfully managed to grapple and flip him over, in a tangle of arms and legs. Yuri tasted blood. It felt good this time. He rammed his head against Plisetsky’s chin, the crown colliding with the hard bone. The Russian groaned. As he lifted his hands to the wounded area, Yuri took advantage of this to free himself and stand. The other did the same thing. 

 

They separated once again. Each gasping for breath. They grappled with each other, with less and less precise movements; tiredness started to show. Each punch was a little less angry. Each kick was a little less hateful. Soon their energy was drained, making every following movement more mellow than the last.

 

In the end, they both laid on the bare ground; faces covered in sweat, dust, and blood. They glanced at each other. Smiles grew on their faces.

“Thanks.”

 

Yuri was the first to break the silence. He didn’t feel better in the slightest, but fighting with Plisetsky had somehow helped him to get rid of the false cheer that had tormented him the past few hours. Above all, it had kept Phichit’s death and what it meant at bay for a while. He stood and offered a hand to the Russian, who in the end accepted it.

“I hope you’re satisfied with yourself,” Michele mumbled, eyes full of disapproval. He raised a finger to point at the sun, already on his way towards the horizon, the clock signalled that 1300 had just passed. “Your little fight made us lose precious time,” Michele continued. His shovel talk was cut off, however, at the beginning with Victor’s arrival.

“They haven’t, Sergeant Crispino. I’m glad these two have finally sorted things out. If only things could always be so simple,” the General simply remarked. The last part of the phrase was accompanied by him staring at Yuri, a knowing look in his eyes. Yuri averted his gaze, hands curling tightly around the straps of his rucksack. He had just noticed that, along with his own, Victor was also carrying Phichit’s ruck.

To not waste his sacrifice

 

“You’re not the only one who has suffered,” Plisetsky told him as soon as Victor had left, wiping his nose. “If it hadn’t been for Lilia…” he trailed off. His usual discretion, along with the habit not showing any weakness, prevented him from opening up too much. It was nonetheless too late, as Yuri’s curiosity had already been lit.

“Lilia?”

“Yes, Yakov’s ex-wife. Lilia Baranoskaya.”

Yuri froze, metaphorically at least. In truth he continued to walk, but his mouth fell open. He shook his head as to clear it. “Lilia Baranoskaya? The ex-Bolshoi Prima, that Lilia Baranoskaya?”

Now it was Plisetsky’s turn to be surprised. He turned to watch Yuri. The scoff in his voice did little to hide his sincere surprise. “Of course, who else,” he replied. “How do you know her?” he asked right after **.** Yuri huffed, the ghost of a laugh barely audible.

“You’re kidding, right? Everybody in the dance world knows her,” he affirmed, matter-of-factly.

“You did dance?”

Plisetsky seemed more confused than ever; or intrigued. It was difficult to say. Yuri couldn’t help but smirk.

“Yes, Ballet. But people made fun of me for it,” he answered. The information fell easily, that thin string in common between him and the Russian was well welcomed, despite having been discovered in the strangest way at the worst moment ever

“That’s bullshit!” Plisetsky exclaimed.

“And you?” Yuri asked, curiosity creeping in words.

“A little, but wasn’t my thing.”

 

He trailed off once again, back tracking into safe and neutral territory as soon as Yuri Katsuki tapped into his past nobody was allowed into. Otabek had to wait years before Plisetsky could feel comfortable enough to open up to him, telling him how dancing had been both a blessing and a curse. He appreciated, still, the fact that Yuri Katsuki respected his silence and made no attempt to break it before he could feel comfortable enough to do so himself.

“Chulanont make fun of you too?” Yuri Plisetsky managed to ask. Yuri laughed a bit, a sad and fond laugh, the kind reserved to a dear but old memory.

“Never.”

 

On the contrary, Phichit had been deeply fascinated by Yuri’s flexible body and his graceful movements, happy to find a person who could understand his profound passion for dancing musicals. “My grandma was a dancer, she moved with the wind,” Phichit used to recall, before diving into childhood memories.

He was born in Thailand, in a big family living in a colourful house in the slums of Bangkok. Then his father, a famous baker in the area got the idea of opening a bakery in the US and, despite all their doubts, the whole family participated in this adventure. Unfortunately, America was very different from the Promise Land Phichit’s father had pictured; in the end, despite having great success in the Thai neighbourhood, the pastry shop never had any major success, and having a family with four sons and two daughters to provide for, saving money became a problem. The difference between Yuri and Phichit, however, was that the latter’s family never lost their hope or optimism and stuck together as much as they could.

 

Lost in his memories, Yuri became silent. Plisetsky waited a few minutes, but when it was clear that the Japanese man wasn’t going to speak any time soon, he left him alone. It was clear that part of his mind had escaped to some distant land, a happy place with no pain. Where he had no intention of coming back any time soon, as if this could help him go on.

 ***

 

“This is no place for him.”

This was what Yuri had thought about Phichit Chulanont the first time they had met at Basic in Fort Knox; and he had no doubt the Thai had probably had similar thoughts about himself.

“Chulanont. Phichit Chulanont,” the man had introduced himself, with an iron-like but friendly handshake.

Yuri honestly didn’t remember their first encounter all that well, details lost to the past and Phichit’s swirling personality. Before that, Yuri didn’t know a person could talk that much. He was sure, however, that they had started to chat during chow. Phichit was a concentration of optimism.

“Had to help my family,” was his answer when Yuri asked him why he had enlisted. That had been the start of a lifelong friendship. Phichit’s warm personality had quickly captured Yuri, winning his trust and pushing past his shyness. He always had a joke ready to lighten his morale after a particularly gruelling day of training, and apparently, he was immune to a sentiment called “hate.”

 

Phichit had a natural talent to make friends. In no time, the two of them had acquired two new friends: Leo de la Iglesia, a half-Mexican with a passion for music, and Guang Hong Ji, a Chinese immigrant way more dangerous than his looks led you to believe.

“And you? How did a Japanese man from Kyushu end up in the US Army?” Phichit inquired one evening, when it was acceptable to pose a similar question. Yuri told him the story of how his family was forced to send him away from home.

“Guess you can say I’ve enlisted to help my family too,” he concluded, shrugging. They were polishing a whole pile of boots the chatting helped them to get through the heavy work, especially after a day of training. It was probably a punishment for something Yuri couldn’t recall anymore. Still, he remembered the smell of shoe polish in his nostrils and how Phichit’s topic of choice had jumped from his childhood to his favourite Thai movie to how much he loved computers.

 

Yuri hadn’t mentioned Victor Nikiforov at the time, not yet. Nonetheless, as Phichit would soon discover, being a friend with him meant having an indirect knowledge of the Russian General. If the name had only rung a bell in Phichit’s head before, vague memory of strategy class and enemy analysis, now it was the sign of Yuri’s eyes starting to sparkle and his mouth to speak nonstop.

Phichit had always listened to him.

 

He had listened to him the day before, no more than three hours prior his death.

“Last night Victor talked to me,” Yuri began knowing that with Phichit, there wasn’t any necessity to introduce the topic. Actually, this always made things so much easier. He paid little attention to the fact he had referred to the General by nothing but his birth name. Phichit nodded. His tongue clicking against his palate was a sign that he was all ears.

“Well, we’ve already talked, but this time it was different,” Yuri clarified.

“He spoke about paths chosen by Fate and destiny.” Yuri recalled, with doubt normally associated with something so absurd it couldn’t have actually happened; how Victor’s hand had been so close to his face he could almost feel its warmth and the way Victor’s body had bended with the intention of leaning towards him, his profile well outlined by the stars’ light.

Phichit didn’t make a sound besides a sporadic “mmm” to signal he was actively listening. He didn’t have to wait much before Yuri resumed. His voice had familiar hints of panic.

 

“What can I do, Phichit? He’s here. He’s so close, and every time he looks at me I feel my heart bursting. I love him, and I can’t even tell him.”

As his friend finally admitted what Phichit had suspected since the day Yuri shared the secret of a dossier, compiled with the passion of a person who had nothing else to hold on to, Phichit switched from his comrade-mood to his best-friend-mood.

“Tell him!”

Yuri jumped in place. The reaction caused a hullabaloo of darting eyes and hands on rifles. Michele, who was walking right behind Yuri, stopped abruptly and crashed into his back, cursing.

“What’s there?” came Victor’s question from the end of the column.

“Yeah, I hope it’s something important,” echoed Plisetsky from the front. Yuri felt his face burning in embarrassment.

“Nothing, false alarm,” Phichit assured, a look of complicity in his eyes. There was another pause of doubt, people looking around with a new surge of paranoia, but nothing different from the ordinary was found.

“Ok, let’s just keep moving,” Victor ordered in the end. They all rushed to comply.

 

With the attention no longer on them, Phichit didn’t lose any time to get back on the topic they were discussing prior. Yuri sighed in understanding. “I can’t tell him. He’s Victor Nikiforov. He’s a legend, and I’m just _me,”_ he said, the last two words bearing all the nothingness and meaninglessness he was feeling.

_Probably doesn’t even like men; if so, not men like me._

“You’re more than what other people would hope to bargain for,” Phichit countered.

“What if he doesn’t want me? He can’t want me. This is silly. He’s everything, and I’m nothing-”

Yuri hadn’t even finished that last sentence when Phichit had yanked him to the side of the column, gesturing for the others not to worry about them. Having been already witnesses of Yuri’s anxiety, they all simply assumed that was the case and let them be, just slowing down the pace a bit. Phichit dug fingers into Yuri’s shoulders, staring at him in the eyes with a look reserved for when he wanted to be very, very serious.

“Yuri Katsuki, never ever say you’re nothing. I’m your best friend, and as your best friend I’m allowed to slap some sense into that head of yours if you ever doubt yourself again.”

“But…….Victor!”  
“Listen. Victor fucking Nikiforov may be a great General and everything, but if he doesn’t see how good you are, then I’ll have to kick his butt into tomorrow. I’ll make him regret the day he’s hurt you,” Phichit threatened, launching significant glances to the Russian man.

“If he doesn’t want you, he doesn’t deserve you. Never forget this. So,” he restarted, complicity softening again his features “when do you plan to tell him?”

“When this is all over,” Yuri trailed off, unsure of his own decision. Phichit didn’t seem to agree with him. According to him, indeed, the end of the mission was too late.

“Tell him tomorrow, I’ll wait for it!” he insisted. He had insisted so much that in the end Yuri was forced make a promise. Three hours later, Phichit Chulanont met his fate, and Yuri discarded any intentions he could have of confessing his feelings to Victor Nikiforov.

 

Above all, Phichit had been there to listen and sustain him when the shame of that failed mission had fallen on his shoulders, like a stain he couldn’t wash away.

Yuri remembered it as if it was yesterday: the late spring of 1986, Bolivia, Pando region.

The mission should’ve been simple, a quick raid in a drug-dealer controlled village, under the bigger operation that would come to be known as Operation Blast Furnace.

 

The air was so humid it gave them the sensation of breathing water. Mosquitoes landed non-stop on every inch of their skin, biting with no mercy. Soon the tickling of their minuscule bodies became an annoyance: a drop of sweat or the brush of a leaf was enough for the men to slap and scratch the just touched area. They slapped their arms, their legs, and their faces. It was a continuous sound of sweaty skin against sweaty skin, palms coming down with a “thump” and a “thud.”

Until Yuri ordered his men to stop, telling them to actually keep a hold on their rifles. His men whined. He himself couldn’t deny that resisting the urge to scratch the bites was actually torture. It burned and pricked, and it was everywhere.

At night, Yuri’s nails joyfully dug into skin. In the morning, there was blood under them. But the apparent soothing was always short lived.

 

“Hey, aren’t you used to it?” one of his men exclaimed a day fucking similar to all the others, in between the panting and curses at all the damn mosquitoes and beetles and whatever born-from-hell creature that crept under the leaves and between the roots. It wasn’t the first time his men commented about his ethnicity, origins, or even young age – the fact that Yuri appeared ten years less than his actual age didn’t help. Normally, he would have let it slide, but the fact was that he was exhausted and on the verge of exploding. He stopped and spun on his heel, a dangerous smile lingering on his lips.

 

“Yeah. Lemme clear two things straight. I know my English may be not so good, so I’ll speak slowly for you to understand. One: my hometown is on the coast. Seaside. Got it? Sand and sea. Not jungle. I’m not from Iwo Jima. I’m not from Okinawa. My hometown’s called Hasetsu. On the seaside? Got the difference?”

The men nodded, discomfort slowly appearing on their faces. Yuri kept grinning.

“Second, I haven’t been home in almost nine years, understood?” Yuri continued, now mouth stretched in a full, toothy smile.

The men nodded again, shifting weight from one foot to the other and launching glances here and there. Yuri took a step forward, expression suddenly dead-serious.

“Now,” he began his warning, accent willingly heavy on each single syllable, “if I hear any of you talking shit again about my person and my origins, if any of you ever dare to question my authority in any way, they’ll have to burn this fucking jungle to the ground to find you. Understood?”

 

It had felt strange, but not in a bad way. Sure, there hadn’t been any further jokes. In retrospect, he wished he hadn’t been so harsh. The menace was still lingering in the air when the first bullets started flying over their heads. A man on Yuri’s right shouted and dropped dead, a blood patch expanding on his chest.

Blood splattered Yuri’s face. Another man cried, bending to grab his pierced leg; his voice full of pain and desperation.

Yuri’s brain short-circuited.

 

All of the sudden, he didn’t know anything beside the certainty that he was in hell, a burning hot, humid, green Hell. Years of training and instructions disappeared with the rising cries of men being cut down by a hidden enemy. Oh god, they were being shot. Someone was shooting them. Good god, the kid on his right had been killed? How old could he been? Twenty? Oh god, he was dead and Yuri had had no problem threatening him just moments ago.

His head started to spin, bullets coming from everywhere. Someone grabbed his arm and yanked down. Yuri barely registered the fact. His ears filled with the whistle of the bullets, the cries of pain, curses and words in a language he didn’t understand.

“Corporal, what do we do?”

 

Of course, they depended on him. He was supposed to guide them; he was responsible for them. How was it? There was a scheme of manoeuvre, he was sure, but he couldn’t remember anything about it. The air was so hot and humid, and everything was so noisy, so, so noisy. Oh god, god, god, from where was the shooting coming from? He didn’t know. It was impossible to figure out, that fucking jungle looked all the same. “What do we do?”

Again, that request. He didn’t know. He didn’t fucking know. He only knew it was difficult to breath. His throat hurt. Yuri tried to inhale, but it was useless. The cries were so loud. He couldn’t breath. Oh god, it couldn’t happen to him. It couldn’t happen now. He thought he had learnt to control his anxiety; he was sure. He had studied so carefully all those coping techniques, fighting every day to keep it under control. That was his first command, his first solo mission with a squad under his responsibility. He had promised everything would be fine.

And now he couldn’t breath. Why was it so difficult to breath? Why was everything so blurry? Where were his glasses? Oh god, not his glasses! He touched his face in panic. No, they were still there; but his sight didn’t improve at all.

Everything continued to spin around.

 

To Yuri, what had happened next was a distant memory of a dream belonging to someone else. One of his men had pulled him in between some bushes, and emptied a cartridge from there. He then launched an SOS via radio. They were the only two survivors. At the time, Yuri was too shocked to fully comprehend what had happened, let alone guide them back to safety. How they managed to do so was an answer that belonged to a land he had been unable to reach for a long time. All he wanted to do then was to curl up on the ground and sleep forever.

_They are all dead. All dead._

He had accepted his demotion with no protest. His superiors had been more clement than he deserved, Cialdini, above all, interceded in his defence. “It happens. It’s not your fault,” Cialdini tried to reassure him. Phichit told him the same. Yuri, however, knew better. It was his fault. If it hadn’t been for his anxiety, his men would’ve been still alive.

Victor Nikiforov would’ve never let something similar happen.

 ***

 

The day they finally arrived at the village, about two kilometres away from it, they stopped at the beginning of a trail that lead up to the complex of houses. Yuri was struggling with himself to keep moving. He barely had any sleep the previous two nights, too tired and with a mind that constantly flashed image of Phichit’s death, no matter how hard he tried to shift his focus onto something else. The others weren’t in any better shape, expressions stuck in a general grimace of “Now, what?”

Indeed, the hopes to find someone from Sergeant De La Iglesia’s squad had became so thin everyone almost preferred to indulge ignorance than having the truth being slammed in their faces, whichever it might have been. It didn’t help one bit that the two most optimistic people of the group were gone.

“So, now what?” Plisetsky huffed, tapping a foot impatiently.

 

From nowhere, a little girl ran before their eyes, a basket bouncing against her slim back. A kid, no older than five, followed soon after. He was barefoot and carried a bundle of wood in his skinny arms. As he rushed forward on unsteady feet, he tripped on an exposed root, fell to his knees and let the wood roll all over.

With his knees now scraped, he started to cry. The little girl, however, apparently wasn’t in the mood for consolation. Instead, she gave him a cuff behind the ear and ordered him to recollect the wood. The kid - her brother no doubt - cried louder. This won him another clip, on the same ear. Sniffing and muttering what all the kids in the world are known to mutter when they’re bossed around by their older siblings, the kid stood and started to recollect the wood, without much willingness nor success. Mucus shone under his small nose.

The kid was at his third attempt, when his sister was moved to mercy.

“There!” She told him in Pashtun, dividing the weight. “Now give me your hand.”

Whether or not the kid protested his sister’s decision, Yuri didn’t know. The words were indeed covered by Behrooz’s excited exclamations. He was pointing at where the children had just been, kept frantically reiterating the same phrase. 

“They’re them!”

“Them who?” asked Yuri Plisetsky, the tone of a person who couldn’t take any more shit for the day, the week, and probably the whole month. 

“The children!”

 

This time it was Yuri Plisetsky turn to snap. As it often happens, he did it out of nowhere and even at the wrong moment.

“Enough!” he exclaimed, cheeks becoming red with surging anger; the sentiment nourished by the frustration he had felt the previous day. Behrooz, half-speaking in English and half-relying on Otabek for a translation, goofily attempted to calm him down, saying that he had recognized two of the children Leo de La Iglesia had taken under his wing. It meant the others couldn’t be far, as Sergeant de La Iglesia would’ve never abandon a child, he knew it. Plisetsky clenched its fists.

“How can I know you’re telling the truth? Stop this farce. The first two kids we see, and suddenly you know them!?” he cried, accent heavy on his English.

“Yuri, please!” Otabek intervened.

 

Crying out that he didn’t want to listen, Plisetsky took a step backwards. His foot found nothing but air. The other food slipped on smooth rock.

He dropped under their very eyes.

 

“No!”

Otabek sprinted forward. He jumped, body stretched out, but his gesture proved to be in vain. Or, it came too late as another person had already acted.

Behrooz was lying on his stomach, the upper part of his body leaned out over the abyss; a hand was grasping the edge of the cliff, the other was tight around Plisetsky’s.

“Hold on!”

He panted, face twisted in the effort to sustain Captain Plisetsky’s body. Plisetsky kicked the air, uselessly trying to find a grip on the wall. There weren’t any ledges big enough for the tip of his boots to fit in. With one hand secured in Behrooz’s, the other scratched aimlessly on the rock. His sweaty palm glided against it. He felt his hand became slippery.

“Fuck, that hurts! What are you doing? Help me!” he cried. Behrooz most recent, but useless, attempt to lift him had sent jolts of pain to the juncture between arm and shoulder. Indeed, Plisetsky was too heavy for a single, old man to carry him back to safety.

 

As if woken up by Plisetsky’s protests, both Georgi and Otabek finally moved. They formed a human chain, the latter grabbing Behrooz by the waist, and pulled. JJ and Victor soon came to help them. They pulled again. They pulled until Plisetsky could throw himself to the safety of the area just before the cliff. He was still cursing the world under his breath, left arm cradling the right one. After a while, he carefully rolled a shoulder and welcomed the discovery it wasn’t dislocated with a reassured smile. 

He stretched it a bit. He then noticed Otabek’s meaningful look. He turned towards Behrooz.

“Listen,” he began, head a bit ducked and voice more uncertain than usual. “I am grateful for you having saved me.”

The man stood there in wait, making no sound. Yuri took a deep breath. The effort of having to admit his errors was well visible. His face twisted in subsided pride.

“I was-”

Behrooz lifted his chin as an invitation to continue. Yuri nails bite into palms

“I was wrong, alright? But I had my motives and -”, but Otabek’s hand on his shoulder silenced him. Understanding the message, Yuri Plisetsky breathed again and forced himself to apologise without any ifs-ands-or-buts.

“I’m sorry, I was wrong.”

Behrooz didn’t say anything for a while. He just stood there, arms crossed, and a satisfied expression on his face. Then his wrinkled visage melted into a smile. He had a moment of hesitation, before reaching out his hand for Yuri Plisetsky’s to shake it. He did it.

“I’ve told you, I’m a good man.”

*** 

 

When Plisetsky had calmed down from the fear of the fall, despite the fact he would’ve never admitted it, the group returned to the previous problem of approaching the village. As they were discussing how many and which people were better to send in avant-garde, a voice rose up above the others, the tone demanding to be listened to.

 

“I’ll go.”

Six heads lifted towards JJ. In the passing days, his presence had been useful but not essential. Yuri had to admit he had often wondered what were Second Lieutenant Leroy’s strong points, besides being able to repair a broken truck and telling horrible jokes. They would have forgotten about him, had it been possible with JJ continuing to remind them how lucky they were to have him around. Plisetsky always seemed on the verge of murdering him, when he wasn’t directing his hate towards Yuri. Nonetheless, there was no doubt that Jean-Jacques Leroy was a trained soldier, just like all of them, born and raised in a family with a strong tradition in the military, if Yuri recalled correctly.

Moreover, JJ was probably holding up the best among them, at least psychologically. Thus, the possibility of leaving the floor to him was, indeed, alluring.

After a moment of reflection, Victor agreed: “All right. But I cannot let you go alone.” He turned towards Yuri, almost mechanically. The man felt a resurgence of contrasting thoughts and feelings, but repressed them as quickly as they came.

“You’re right, General. I’ll go with him,” he offered. Contrary to both JJ and Michele, he knew Leo and his squad, and held some vague information about their mission, which the Soviets were unaware of.

He had the feeling this could come in handy.

 ***

 

With hands on his rifle, Yuri and JJ jogged up the uphill trail. The village was now clearly visible to the naked eye, a group of ochre coloured houses, not different from any others they have already came across during their journey, came into view.

Two women were walking in their direction, each carrying a bucket against her hip. They were dressed in modest clothing, wearing long brown robes hiding any shape. Their heads were wrapped in hijabs, but the faces were exposed. As soon as Yuri noticed them, he quickly grabbed Second-Lieutenant Leroy’s wrist to drag him back behind some rocks. The latest events had made him weary. The same, however, could not be said for JJ. The man freed himself, and almost ran towards the women.

 

“No! Wait, they can’t”

_Speak with strange men._

Yuri tried to warn him.

Too late. JJ had already left his hiding place, and was now strolling towards the women, a wide smile stretching his face. Yuri crossed fingers, hoping that being from a military family taught JJ how to deal with a similar situation. 

“Me and my friend” JJ began. Yuri repressed the instinct to face palm. With his hideout revealed, he found no choice but to step into the light. 

He darted a pleading look to JJ, hoping some common sense could be transmitted by stares. “If you could help us,” JJ continued, English fast with a strong Canadian accent. Yuri wondered if JJ had actually looked at the issue of the two women not understanding him. 

His doubts were short lived. Indeed, a woman had just picked up a stone and threw it at JJ, yelling. Her friend soon did the same. With the arm already raised, she noticed Yuri. She aimed at his head and flung the stone. The stone hit him in in the temple, hard. It wasn’t enough to knock him down, but to break blood. Instinctively, Yuri crossed his arms over his head to protect it. Whatever the reason – maybe they had offended the women without knowing it, maybe they had scared them, maybe they had changed alliance in the past days – it was clear the two of them weren’t welcomed anywhere near the village.

 _And maybe it had been the same for Leo and the others._ The first thought, however, that Yuri had was to grab JJ’s wrist and suggest a not-so-subtle retreat.

 

As Yuri and JJ ran from the two women, in a not so manly way they had to admit, Victor and Georgi, who separated from the rest of the group to explore a bit of the area, were facing a soldier dressed in a dusty US uniform who had all the intention to shoot them.

 

“Stop right there,” the stranger shouted, rifle raised and pointed at Georgi’s heart. Victor took his rifle safety off in response. The stranger shifted his own rifle towards him and back again, eyes peering from above the cloth that hid his mouth. If he had recognized Victor from his fame, he showed no sign having done so. Or if that were the case, it only made him wearier.

His hands trembled around the rifle’s handle; sweat beading his brow and trailing down a small, button nose. He had almond-shaped eyes, now squinting in the light of the lowering sun, red rays painting abstract figures on one half of his body.

“Guys, those villagers are –” came a familiar voice in the distance

All of them, stranger included, lifted their gazes towards JJ, who was rushing down the track. Yuri followed right after, cradling a cheek in his hand.

“Crazy,” JJ ended the sentence. He stopped abruptly before the scene that was unrolling under his eyes. At his side, Yuri seemed just as puzzled; not worried, if the US uniform of the new pawn meant anything. Indeed, under the layer of dust, the stranger’s long hair and the stubble was strangely familiar.

 

The stranger’s eyes lit up with interest as soon as he noticed Yuri’s presence. He slowly lowered his rifle. He mouthed a single name; two syllables only.

“Yuri?” he asked, taking a step forward.

“Guang-Hong?” Yuri wondered in reply, tilting his head like he wanted to see the scene from a different angle.

The stranger slowly pulled down the cloth, revealing a small, baby face. Brown tufts covered in dirt fell over his honey-brown eyes.

He nodded. Yuri’s crushing, bone-breaking hug, forced him to let go of the rifle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might have noticed, the updating schedule had shifted from Thursday/Friday to Sunday/Monday evening CET. The average wait between chapters is still a week though.
> 
> So, after the disasters of the last chapter, finally we have a joy. 'na gioia, as we say in Italy. I tell you, this had been one of the hardest chapter to write.  
> Chapter 10 is soon to be betated and chapter 11 is under construction. There'll be a kind of happy ending, don't worry.  
> The first chapters (1-3) will be revised, so heads up for possible changes.  
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated. 
> 
> I've also made an aesthetic board: http://gwen-chan.tumblr.com/post/159904283967/victuuri-militaryau-an-aesthetic-board-for-my


	10. Success Can Be Bitter, Darling

**Success Can Be Bitter, Darling**

 

Sergeant de la Iglesia’s assigned mission hadn’t been labelled to indicate a high level of danger. Surely, he and his men had been warned to be aware of their surroundings and to never forget they’d be crossing enemy territory, but the mission appeared to be easy, at least on paper. The objective was to reach a village where, according to the circulating rumours, the chief could prove to be a useful ally.

But then, when in the world has reality ever stuck to plan.

 

Thus, not even four days after the beginning of Leo’s mission, Leo’s men had come across these five children, crying and lost. Leo had a tender heart and paid little attention to those who were telling him it could be a trap. Instead he ordered some rations to be shared with the kids, while using Behrooz to find out which village they came from. Establishing that they could help the children on their way home was nothing but a little detour; things were set into place.

The following day Leo’s squad had walked into an ambush. One man was killed on site. One of the children was wounded too, destined to die later. Behrooz panicked and fled. Leo and the survivors, running away from the firing, found themselves alone in an unforgiving territory on a path they barely knew.

 

Deciding to help the children, however, proved to be the right thing. The older one, that very same girl Yuri and the others had seen not long before, knew very well the way bound to the village Leo was interested in. Her help added to the pieces of information Behrooz had gathered before fleeing was enough for the squad to avoid getting lost.

Moreover Leo was so desperate to end the mission and to keep what remained of his squad safe, that he forced the pace. He also ordered his men to carry the children and did so himself when the kids’ short legs couldn’t keep up with adults’ pace. Above all, despite Chris’ protests, he refused to stop ignoring the pain his fresh wound caused him. When it became infected, he simply gritted his teeth and leaned on Guang Hong for support. 

Leo de la Iglesia collapsed within next three days, dropping to the ground just a few miles from the village. He died in the following hours, feverish and delirious. The others did the only thing they could: they buried the body, recorded the coordinates, and proceeded. 

They had been told that the village was controlled by a local tribe who sympathised with a mujahedeen group. The idea was that it could provide valid support in the fight against the Soviets. 

So, no one among Leo’s men was prepared to be greeted by a blast of bullets at the village door. 

One was killed right there. Under Chris’s orders, the survivors – three, excluding him and Guang Hong, retreated.

Apparently – as they would soon discover- the former chief had died, leaving behind a son too weak to maintain the power. Not even one day into his rule, he had been killed by a rival tribe and from the power vaccum a new man took control. The new self-appointed chief had utilized the villagers’ rage and pride to push the idea that everyone was an enemy and encouraged his people to go into complete isolation. 

 

After another long night of reflection and discussion, Christophe decided to find shelter in a cave he had seen nearby, launch a distress signal via radio, and wait.

In their conditions trying to go back sounded like a suicide; they were in a territory they barely knew, as American soldiers who shouldn’t be there.

It looked like suicide, also, considering what little they had left of water and military rations; enough to survive if they stayed put - Guang Hong had discovered a not yet dried stream a few miles away - but too scarce for any great movement.

 

Troubled about what to do, after another period of tormented reflection, Christophe decided to send the two oldest children to investigate. They didn’t come back. Sometimes, though, they could be seen hanging around in the distance, which gave Chris hope they weren’t held as prisoners. As for the two younger children who had stayed with them, they simply sneaked from the American reconnaissance team to run right against the legs of a woman passing by with her own baby strapped to her back. Apparently not all the villagers were hostiles – or maybe she was from a different one – because, after having examined the children and listened to them, she took each by the hands and guided them away. Chris followed them with his gaze until they become as small as dots on paper.

Sometimes one of the children they sent the first time, the only girl in the group, a motherly sister who had always her little brother attached to her leg, snuck outside the village and brought them some food. However, each time they tried to ask information about the situation, they were meet by with fearful silence. Still she seemed well fed, clean, and she didn’t show any external sign of having been beaten. In their current situation they could do little to help her.

Above all, as days passed, the hopes of having someone rescue them became smaller and smaller. Some of the survived soldiers had become restless.

***

 

 

 

“Umm, Yuri, I can’t breathe!”

It was maybe the third time Guang Hong tried to point out that fact, louder with each attempt, but Yuri hadn’t show any signs yet of wanting to let him go. 

“Is this something he normally does?” Victor asked JJ in a whisper. He shrugged, looking as puzzled as Victor was.

“Yuri!”

This time the exclamation was accompanied by a subtle threat of a kick in the balls. Sighing, Yuri freed Guang Hong, who stood a bit uncertainly on his feet and looked around. A flood of questions erupted from his mouth, all of which could be summarised as “why are you here” and “why are you with the Soviets?”

“It’s a long story,” Yuri only replied. Guang Hong nodded, an avid look for Yuri’s canteen as his eyes glanced up and down. Yuri gave it to him. Guang Hong gulped the water in long sips, totally ignoring Yuri’s advice of slowing down.

“Private Katsuki, I understand the importance of this moment, but we can’t stay here,” Georgi intervened. All the others nodded in agreement. 

“Alright, we need to warn the others. You’ve said there was a problem with the village? We’ll have to discuss the situation,” Victor recapped. As his voice lowered to silence, Guang Hong grabbed Yuri’s arm.

“Is this what I think I’m seeing?” he hissed, walking down the trail. Yuri shrugged a little.

“That depends. What are you thinking?”

“That Victor Nikiforov just talked to us”

“Then, yes, you’ve just seen that.”

 

There was a pause, a silence full of repressed curiosity, in the awkwardness that was impregnating the moment. Indeed, having found a member of Leo’s squad, the mission hadn’t proved to be a complete failure. Still, nobody ever dared to believe it all ended there; especially considering how the villagers had treated Yuri and JJ, soldiers in the US army uniform should’ve been allies. Still in war, alliances can change as swiftly as the wind. Then there were Yuri, Otabek, and the prisoner who had stayed back and with whom the group had to reunite with.

Yuri took a deep breath. One step at the time.

And the first step, apparently, was to re-assemble the squad.

“Staying here is not safe. Let’s head back!” Victor ordered, starting to walk down the trail. All the others hastily followed. Yuri kept close to Guang Hong, happy to see him worn out, but alive and well.

 

“And the others?” Yuri finally asked. Guang Hong slowed down his pace, a new heaviness in his words.

“There were eight of us. One was killed in the ambush. Leo died a few days later, blood poisoning. The others disobeyed Chris’ orders to stick together and ran away a couple of days ago. It’s just me and Chris now,” he recapped in a monotone voice, as if he was issuing a report. Yuri remained silent in acknowledgement. 

It had made him loose contact with reality for a fraction of a second; the information, however, was distant, like it was meant for someone else. Leo was dead, just like old Phichit, like Emil, like private Yegorov, like all the soldiers in that Bolivian jungle. Yet death sounded like a dream, a legend in a far away land. Death was only a word, a sound, and ink on paper. It meant everything and nothing 

Leo was dead. Phichit was dead. Guang hadn’t asked Yuri for news about Corporal Chulanont yet. He feared that moment. He swallowed, wondering whether to tell Guang Hong the truth there and now or to wait for a quieter moment; not that there was a right moment to tell someone that a dear friend had blown up. The memory twisted Yuri’s stomach. 

Any other possible indulgent thought about the subject was prevented by Plisetsky’s harsh voice welcoming them back. There was a familiar anger in his tone, something that Yuri had come to accept as part of the man’s personality; there was also a note of concern and relief. Now Yuri had no doubt Plisetsky cared for all of them; his roughness was just his way of showing it.

“Please, tell me I haven’t wait for nothing!” he huffed at Victor.

The man shook his head. “Negative,” and as he was saying that, he raised his pointer finger towards Guang Hong. Plisetsky squinted his eyes.

“Sergeant de la Iglesia?” he wondered, loud enough for Guang Hong to hear him.

“Private Ji,” Guang Hong replied. Plisetsky furrowed his brow, rummaging through his memories to associate some details to a name he wasn’t hearing for the first time. When he remembered, no more than ten seconds later, he nodded in acknowledgment.

“Is he –” Victor glared at him – “Are you the only survivor?” Plisetsky resumed, speaking directly to Guang Hong. The man repeated what he had told Yuri. As he spoke, his gaze moved around until it lingered on Otabek and Behrooz, waiting a couple of yards away. Feeling observed, they returned the gaze. Not even having the time to blink, Behrooz had covered the distance and was now standing in front of Guang Hong.

He opened his mouth, but if it was to apologize for having abandoned them or something else, no one knew as Victor’s intervention interrupted him.

 

“Can you lead me and Private Katsuki to Major Giacometti?” Victor asked. Guang Hong started to move, gesturing for the General to follow him. “Meanwhile, I trust that Captain Popovich and Captain Plisetsky will sort out a plan to lead all of us back safe and sound!” he added.

“I’m coming with you!” Plisetsky told him. Victor accepted it with no further ado, just shooting Georgi a meaningful glance.

 

Guang Hong led them down a secondary trail to a half-hidden cave he and Giacometti had elected to be their shelter. Some ashes indicated the remnants of a fire they lit at night to keep themselves warm or boil water. Boot footprints were scattered all over the dusty floor, in between some empty food packaging. A possibly broken radio creaked in the background. 

Major Giacometti was instead waiting at the front opening, rifle armed and pointed outside. Guang Hong, who had told the other three men to wait a moment, indicated for him to lower it down. Giacometti did it with suspicion in his eyes. Just like it happened with Guang Hong, he was becoming paranoid. 

“It’s fine!” Guang Hong assured him, forcing his voice to be cheerful. “They found us!” He continued. As it was some kind of signal, Yuri came closer. Seeing his uniform, Chris’ face beamed. 

Then Plisetsky imitated Yuri’s action - Chris frowned, a finger back on the trigger. Yuri hastily explained that the Soviets, for the extraordinary occasion, were on their side. 

Finally Victor arrived. Face to face with an old friend he had lost track of, Chris fell for a loss of words. He and Victor stood there, in silence. 

 

Christophe was the first to break it. 

“Victor Nikiforov, it’s been a long time,” he started, stepping forward, arms crossed to his chest.

“A long time indeed,” Victor admitted, sheepishly.

“Twenty years,” Christophe pointed out, arms still folded. “Look at you, where has old Vitya gone?”

“I may ask you the same question.”

Christophe cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve never gone anywhere. Don’t forget that.”

He didn’t show any willingness to disentangle his arms. 

“Look, Chris, I’m sorry. I wanted to write you, but you know me. You know how bad my memory is,” Victor’s apologies sounded more like a pleas. 

“Yes, I know it too well,” admitted the other. Then, much to Victor’s surprise and relief, he burst into a laugh. He encircled Victor in a bear like hug.

“I’ve missed you, my friend,” Chris exclaimed, patting him on the back. He was about to ask news about his life, when Katsuki’s quiet coughing and Plisetsky’s angrier yelling got their attention. 

“Good God. Now, can we focus? I’m looking forward to end this mess!” the former grunted.

 

Since Yuri Plisetsky’s concerns were solid, they hurried to reunite with those left behind and to put some miles between them and the village.

From one thing and to another, soon it was almost late afternoon, with the sun already descending across the horizon, far in the Western sky. It had been, indeed, a day full of events, from the two Yuris’ fight to Plisetsky almost 100 feet above the void; not considering the rush of emotions caused by finding out that only Guang Hong and Chris had survived, while Leo wasn’t as lucky. In the end, Yuri felt it was later than his wristwatch actually said.

 

“You know. It’s a surprise not seeing you with Phichit,” Guang Hong started, a friendly hand on Yuri’s shoulder. Yuri flinched. He felt his mouth go dry and tears pricking at the corner of his eyes

“I mean, you were almost inseparable,” Guang Hong continued, the tone of a person who was finally allowing himself to relax after a long time.

Yuri gasped on thin air. Words blocked in his throat. He chocked on them. 

“Corporal Chulanont died yesterday,” Plisetsky intervened. Guang Hong stared at him. He looked at Yuri, as if he was expecting a rebuttal. 

“What?” he exclaimed, voice slow, hope for a contradiction pouring from every single letter.

“I shot him,” Plisetsky pointed out. Guang Hong took Yuri by the shoulders. His shaky fingers dug into flesh. He shook him.

“What is he saying? Why are you sticking with these men? What’s going on?”

There were tears now in Guang Hong’s eyes. 

Looking at them hurt. It made Yuri’s chest clench. When he spoke, his voice was flat, like he was recalling something that happened to a stranger.

“He had too. It was an act of mercy. Phichit had stepped on a mine. He wouldn’t have survived. He …” He trailed off. He sniffed.

*** 

 

The most pressing subject surely was to decide how to split off and return each group to safety. As the Red Army was still in the Afghanistan territory, coming across the American soldiers would prove to have a disastrous effect - something they have been well aware of for all the length of the mission – it was imperative for the Americans to leave the country as soon as possible.

Captain Popovich, who despite his animosity towards Victor, had actually obeyed his sugar-coated order to think about a good plan to sort things out, was still discussing with Otabek and Michele to prepare for as many unexpected events as possible. He had came up with the suggestion for the Americans to reach the Pakistani border, saying that once crossed, it they would be safe, safer than they were now, at least. The problem was how to reach it. Walking all the way there was out of question. Neither they could use military vehicles. Calling via radio for a helicopter to pick them up was an even less viable option. The more they brainstormed, map at hand, the more they felt lost. Victor, remaining faithful to his fame of being a strategist, suggested to use civilian cars - it was welcomed with a murmured of agreement – but left the actual how to further thinking.

 

“There’s a neutral village in the valley down here. Three days of walk maximum. The road will be downhill,” Behrooz intervened at a certain point, after the umpteenth pointless discussion. He spoke in broken English, giving the Otabek the responsibility of translating the parts in Pashtun, and while doing so he indicated the path on the map. 

The promise of a compensation, maybe a little bribery, would grant them a car or two with which to travel to the border. Behrooz then proceeded in suggesting what he, as local, considered the safest road to the border. Once again he traced it on the map. 

 

The path down to the valley was blurred in Yuri’s memory. Behrooz guided them through new trails, hidden and faster shortcuts, and they rucked almost nonstop for two days. Yuri’s muscles ached and his lunges burned. He felt numbness creeping under his skin.

At dawn of the third day, they reached a point where the trail forked. One way ran all the way down to valley. The other started to climb once again up the slope. As Behrooz explained, it sloped down again in a few miles.

“The village is about fifteen miles inland,” he explained. Yuri nodded. Soviets and Americans stared at each other. The time to part ways had come. Uncertain and unresolved issues suddenly required their attention. One of them was Behrooz’s fate.

 

Yuri had naively promised - assured –Behrooz he would see his family soon, but that belonged to ages ago. He glanced at the Soviets, who had become so familiar in little over a week. He diverted his gaze from Victor because it made his chest hurt, skipped Georgi, and stopped at the other Yuri.

They stood there in awkward silence. It was Behrooz who broke it. He took a step towards Plisetsky and, as he did so, Yuri noticed how the surveillance over the man had become less and less strict with each passing day. Captain Plisetsky had long since stopped throwing threats to the prisoner’s life.

So, when their roads parted, Yuri couldn’t know that on the way back to the Soviet base Plisetsky turned a blind eye to Behrooz, muttering for him to run and not look back. The official story was that he had died falling down a slope.

 

“Well, I know it’s strange to say, but thank you for everything,” Yuri reprised, not referring to anyone in particular. He neither expected an answer or the kind of promises that always accompany a departure from a good friend. Indeed, without saying a word Yuri Plisetsky turned his back on him and started walking, a tacit signal it was time for the others to follow his example. Soon Lieutenant Altin was at his side, Behrooz a step ahead. Captain Popovich seemed to ruminate on something to say, but in the end discarding whatever idea crossed his mind.

Only Victor didn’t move. On the contrary he stepped closer to Yuri, announcing he would accompany them to the village and to the Pakistani border. He turned a deaf ear to Plisetsky’s protests of how dangerous it was. 

“They are my responsibility,” he began. His voice had a stern and serious tone Yuri had come to recognize it for the occasions where Victor didn’t permit any disrespect to his authority. It was the tone he used in the sandstorm. It was for when he wanted to use the power that came from being the crown jewel in the Red Army.

 

He would escort the Americans up to the border and beyond, leaving them only when he was sure of their safety. 

“You do realise they aren’t children, right?” Plisetsky exclaimed. “They aren’t cadets who have never done a solo mission!”

Victor answered that, yes, he was well aware of the fact Plisetsky had so kindly pointed out. This, however, didn’t change anything. He had made his decision and Yuri Plisetsky was free to think of it as an extra safety measure if he wanted to. Victor told him when the other lamented having to come up with a good excuse to justify Victor’s absence.

“Safety for what? Back at the camp nobody apart from Yakov knows about them,” he quickly indicated Yuri and the others - “They only know we left to hand over the prisoner and doing some training in field!”

“Then you’d better invent something else. You’ve got plenty of time, Captain,” Victor retorted, voice indicating the subject was closed. His eyes shot Plisetsky an almost pleading look. It wasn’t the General speaking, but the man, that Victor Nikiforov who had fallen in love at the wrong time with a man he shouldn’t have fallen for. He hadn’t told Yuri anything about his feelings to show respect for Yuri’s grief; this last journey may be his last chance. Plisetsky acknowledged this in silence.

“Fine!” he grunted. 

“I hope the trucks we left behind are still there and operating,” Victor told him. Then he continued, “I’ll send you a message once we’ve crossed the border.”

Plisetsky snorted his approval.

 

For a fraction of second, Yuri was glad for Victor’s decision for no other reason than having been granted more time to confess what his heart was feeling. His silent prayers to the void had been answered, he could have some more days with him, lingering in just the sensation of being near him. Yuri felt like he was starving, and Victor was the only thing able to satisfy his hunger. He wished to have another quiet chat just like they had few nights prior and then another one and another one. His body, his hands, his face, ached from the loss of that same touch he had so often shied from.

Then, as Yuri cherished the unexpected opportunity, he remembered it had been Phichit who urged him to confess his own feelings to Victor; he recalled that his friend was no more, how horrible his death had been and everything else. Hopes and wishes came crumbling down into a dull nothingness. He had no right whatsoever to use his extra time with Victor for his egoistical purposes. Victor’s love wasn’t something he was worthy of.

 

“You’re not so bad,” Plisetsky unexpected compliment snapped him back to reality. He had his hands hovering in mid-air as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Yuri’s mind travelled back to their first encounter once again, when the very same man had mocked him and doubted his competency. He didn’t believe that Plisetsky had completely changed or considered him a friend yet, but for sure something was different. Yuri knew nothing about him, but he had observed him. He had witnessed Plisetsky slowly exiting his isolation. He had seen his wall of reticence being cracked open little by little.

In the last days, Plisetsky had eaten with them at dinner. He still used colourful language, but fewer insults were directed to Behrooz or the Americans. Anger changed from directness and a strong sense of righteousness. Above all Yuri saw a young man that kept his head and shoulders up high despite the heavy responsibility resting on them. 

Whatever Yuri saw in his same sake, neither friend nor enemy, it didn’t impede him from tackling the other in an unexpected and bone crashing hug. 

“Next time I’ll make you pay for this!” Plisetsky vowed for the final time as he let go. 

“I’ll look forward for it!”

 

Then everything moved in fast forward.

***

 

As it was easier than walking they practically ran down the trail, rucksacks bouncing on their backs with every step. Dust and little rocks jumped around their boots as the soles collided with the ground. Being taller, Victor and Chris were the fastest, their strides covering almost two metres at a time. To be on the safe side, they had positioned themselves in a column formation, as far as the size of the road allowed.

Victor, JJ, and Michele covered the outer sides, being the ones who were less tired, at least in comparison. Nonetheless, issues like the formation to adopt, seemed to have lost importance when the only thing the group wanted was to put an end to a mission that, as Plisetsky had said a lifetime ago, was doomed from the start.

They barely stopped at night, conceding just few hours to catch their breath and let their minds wander in a half-asleep state, each lost in his own little world. Yuri and Guang Hong found comfort in each other, relinquishing in memories of when they were still young and in training, pain turned into melancholy at each shared anecdote.

_Do you remember when?_

 

There were little smiles stretched under tears-filled eyes.

Not far away, profiles barely visible in the almost pitch-black night, the moon hidden behind some passing clouds, Victor and Chris were quietly chatting. They spoke half in English, half in French, with some Russian words thrown here and there as a memento of the times spent together in Leningrad during their youth. Not quite strangers but no longer close friends, reached for the person the other had been once as they searched for a common ground to fill the twenty-year gap or start anew.

_Where have you been? What have you done? How did we end up like this?_

Above all there was palpable tension crackling in the air, every step, every word. It was the tension that often accompanied the end of a task, when people dare to let their guard down and disaster strikes. So when the village Behrooz had talked to them about appeared before their eyes, bloodshot from not having slept properly in days, no one had the courage to feel relieved. It was like a curse, the idea that the moment they felt dared to feel happiness something would rip it away.

 

Yuri was the one chosen to approach the villagers. The reasons behind the similar choice were multiple. After Giacometti he was the oldest, apart from Victor, and way more experienced than Michele or JJ or Guang Hong.

“Besides, you have a thing for dealing with people,” Guang Hong told him to assuage his unexpressed concerns. Maybe, Guang Hong added, it was because Yuri had grown up in a resort.

Yuri had had neither the heart nor the strength to remind them that the last time he visited the hot springs was when he was seventeen, half his age now. Even then between school and the hours spent at the ballet studio, the amount of work he did at the resort was minimum.

Still Yuri took a deep breath and nodded. It was true that his upbringing made his natural demeanor to be more courteous. Years in the brash Army environment hadn’t been enough to make Yuri forget all of that.

 

With the locals, he discussed the purchase of two cars, under the promise of future compensation. The cars were old, painting scratched by the sand and one tossed out black smoke when turned on. Still, they seemed to be working. Yuri negotiated for them to throw in of a couple gallons of gasoline. He then communicated with the others via radio to inform them about the positive outcome of the negotiations. The villagers were welcoming and kind, so the others could join him. All apart from Victor, as Yuri considered it safer not to let the local Afghan know the presence of a Russian in the proximity. They might have been peaceful, but he didn’t want to risk anything. So Victor was momentarily left behind, waiting to be retrieved once the exchange for the cars had been completed. Michele and Chris took the first shift of driving.

Victor in the meantime had stowed his Soviet jacket into his ruck for safety’s sake. Once in the car, he took the safety of his rifle off, pointing it out of the car window, like a reminder of the threat that still lingered over their heads. 

 

The thing Yuri remembered the most about the journey to Pakistan was his desperate struggle to not fall asleep. He felt exhaustion deep in his bones and the saying “too tired to sleep” truly didn’t apply to him. On the contrary, he would’ve fallen right into Morpheus’ sweet embrace the moment he had closed his eyes for any longer. The car’s movements from the bouncy road didn’t annoy him. Instead it was like the rocking of a cradle, lulling and luring him to a sleep he couldn’t surrender to. 

However, despite one’s efforts, sometimes sleep won. Each time Yuri jerked back to consciousness at every hole and rock the car bumped into. His eyes snapped open, his hands curled around the rifle from muscle memory. Each time Yuri pinched his own cheeks and arms to keep himself awake. 

 

Once Yuri’s body leaned on the side as he slid unwillingly into sleep so that his heavy head ended up resting against Victor’s shoulder. If the General smiled fondly, Yuri didn’t know. He just woke up once again, discovered how close his face had been pressed against Victor’s crook, and poured out excuses. He let his nails bite into his palms so hard that it drew blood. 

“It’s not a problem if you sleep a little more,” Victor tried to reassure him, uselessly. 

“I’ll sleep when I’m home,” Yuri simply replied. 

The journey lasted several days, driving almost nonstop apart from the inevitable pauses to switch drivers to avoid unlucky accidents. Nevertheless, every shift lasted hours - Yuri’s was six. During it he acknowledged nothing besides the dust and sand spraying road in front of him and the voices that were muddled from the car’s radio. Sometimes anonymous villages entered his peripheral vision, but Yuri cared little about them, more interested in keeping the lowest profile possible. Each time a suspicious military vehicle appeared in the distance, his heart jumped into his throat, only to subside when the danger had passed.

As if Lady Luck had finally turned a kind eye on them, they reached the border without any major complications; safe behind the appearance of two old cars going about their business in the vast nothingness of the Afghan flatlands.

*** 

 

They crossed the border, at a point where the surveillance was looser. The moment they passed the imaginary line dividing the two countries, Yuri dared to look back one last time. He looked in front of him, almost expecting a clear difference in the landscape to be proof of being in a different nation. But the surroundings hadn’t changed in the slightest; the same bare mountains and hills, the same sand-covered flatlands, the same villages, and the same wires.

They drove to a small, abandoned airport not far from Quetta, the car lights shining bright in the starry night. They had driven all night, the sun about to rise beyond the horizon when they finally reached the town. After having been sitting for so long in a cramped space, Yuri legs hurt, all pins and needles. He tentatively touched his own calf, the gesture sending an unpleasant jolt through his entire body. Being finally able to stretch was a relief. Yuri stumbled on uncertain legs the moment they touched the concrete ground.

 

“I’m contacting Captain Plisetsky,” Victor informed them, having taken the radio from the car trunk **.** Bent over the car hood, with a map stretched on it, held in place with his elbow, and a flashlight in the other hand, he calculated the coordinates to be relayed back to the American soldiers’ superior. “You can start finding shelter there,” he continued, pointing a finger towards a structure in concrete that one hosted the airport’s main terminal. The old parking lot outside the structure was still half-recognizable, the lines on the pavement faded from the sun and the occasional rain.

The inside of the airport was empty, almost all the furniture had been taken away or destroyed from neglect and human vandalism. There were still some plastic chairs attached to the floor where the departure/arrival area had once been. Yuri flopped on the nearest one, soon imitated by the others. Michele then looked around.

“Do you think this place has a toilet?” he wondered out loud.

“Well, it’s an airport. It should have.”

“A working toilet, I mean,” Michele clarified.

Yuri shrugged. “Guess you have to find out. I don’t have high hopes, but it would be great. My kingdom for a shower.”

The others chuckled.

 ***

 

Major Cialdini reached them after five days, dressed in simple civilian clothes and driving a car with no markings. He looked tired, but overall, he seemed to be fine. Seeing him Yuri let his body relax a little from the tension he had maintained up the then; the possibility of going home already diffused in his mouth like a good taste. He snapped to attention when his superior approached him. The others did the same. Victor simply nodded. 

The Major walked toward him, expression unreadable. “I see you took good care of my boys!” he said. 

Victor gave him a grimace in return: “Not enough, I fear.”

More than anything it pained him seeing the shell of a human that Yuri was on the verge of becoming. His tired smiles were hollow. His eyes were always fixated on a distant point as if he didn’t want to face reality. When addressed he answered in monosyllables, polite but monotone.

If ever a laugh escaped his lips in response to a joke from Guang Hong or Chris, because even in pain there can be space for amusement, a dark shadow over on him the moment he noticed what he was doing. The sadness on his features thus deepened. It wasn’t the first-time Victor saw someone in the same condition as Yuri’s; he knew he wasn’t the first to suffer the loss of a close friend nor he would be the last. He also knew one day he would heal, the image of Corporal Chulanont being blasted by a mine reduced to dull memories, the excruciating guilt transformed to the willingness not to waste his own life. However, this knowledge provided little consolation when under his very eyes the man who unknowingly brought him back to life was slowly slipping into the deep pit of depression.

 

Yuri was so different from the person who had gotten drunk and told him while laughing that he would have even been a spy to win his appreciation. The man who had conquered Victor’s interest had been a blabbering mess that had brought light in the darkest moment of Victor’s life; he had been a novelty and a breath of fresh air in the midst of dusty bureaucrats. The person in front of him seemed to have lost the ability to smile. Once warm brown eyes, sparkling with life, dulled into nothingness.

And Victor wasn’t yet ready to let him go. Some days prior, before they crossed the Pakistani border, Victor had lowered his voice for Yuri to be the only one to hear him in the backseat.

He had reached out and put his hand on Yuri’s knee; the man flinched, but neither refused nor returned the gesture.

“You know, you don’t have to go with the others. If you want, I can make it so you can stay. Mila works for the KGB, I can get you a new passport, a new identity **.** I can make it so you appear to have died. I can-” he went on, voice on the verge of desperation.

But Yuri had raised his hand to silence him. He had shifted in his seat and turned his back on him. Despite his efforts to hide it, Victor could feel the slight tremor in his limbs; he didn’t need to see Yuri’s face to imagine his gritted teeth, his closed fists grasping his shirt where his heart beat. He could almost imagine what thoughts were swirling in Yuri’s mind.

 

Throwing away his past for the faint hope, the vague illusion that his idol felt something for him. Absurd.

“I have a family. I cannot do this to them,” was the answer he finally received.

If Yuri had ever believed in dreams, he had stopped long ago, and if some fancy sparkle remained, the mangled head of Phichit had wiped it out.

 

Deep inside, Victor couldn’t agree more. He thought back to his family, to that father who had persecuted him all his life and who was now underground, under a tombstone like hundred of others in a cemetery in Moscow. He thought about his mother, still alive but small and strong.

“I understand.”

They didn’t address the subject anymore. Up till now

 

Knowing he couldn’t stay in Pakistan any longer, Victor approached Yuri when the man sat alone to eat some rations. Blinded by desperation, he flopped down next to him and reiterated his proposal. He wasn’t General Nikiforov, the pride of the Red Army. He was Victor. He was _Vitya._ He was a man in love and people do crazy things when they are in love.

“Are you sure about my proposal? We have still time, if you want –“

“Yes, General, I’m sure.”

Victor shut up instantly, the rank used by Yuri when he had hoped to be on first name basis with him was like a cold shower.

“I understand.”

Yuri had his rucksack between his legs, the front pocket half undone. Not saying a word, Victor slipped a piece of paper into it, being careful not to be seen by anyone but Yuri.

Yuri didn’t comment at the gesture. He just stood up and left without looking back.

 

“If hadn’t been present, I wouldn’t believe he glomped you three years ago,” Cialdini’s voice came behind Victor’s back. He turned, shrugging.

“Neither would I,” he replied, distractedly.

“You know, General, Katsuki had always talked about you. He tries to be discreet. I imagine you have noticed how reserved he is. But his passion for you is more visible than he imagines.”

“Yes, being the youngest General in history in the Red Army makes people and other soldiers passionate about you,” Victor said, no emotion in his voice.

“Yeah, I imagine it’s like that.”

 ***

 

Victor left at night, without any further notice or farewell. Having informed Major Cialdini of his decision, there wasn’t any more need to delay his departure.

 

“Where’s Victor?” Yuri asked in the morning, rubbing the grogginess from his eyes. For the first time in days, he had had a full eight hours of sleep and not being used to it he felt numb. Guang Hong was still lingering in the last available minutes of sleep, while JJ and Chris were having breakfast and Michele was paying visit to the toilet.

“He left last night,” Major Cialdini answered. “I’m arranging for our departure. We’ll leave tomorrow at the latest,” he added.

Yuri nodded. He then excused himself to retire to his grief once again. After the disaster in Bolivia, he had found consolation thinking that it was impossible to ever feel worse than he had felt then. Boy, he was wrong.

 

He stood not quite leaning against the wall, dumbfounded, as his sleepy brain hadn't yet grasped the meaning of Victor’s departure.

“Gone?” He repeated under his breath, starting to wander around the airport with the hope to clear his mind. Of course Victor would leave, the timing was perfect, but deep inside, Yuri didn't believe he would actually go. A part of him believed he would’ve fought more for him. After having been an imaginary part of half his life, Victor had entered it by random chance, and left it again. But nothing happened. Victor was gone for good; forever out of Yuri's reach. He had been given the opportunity of a lifetime and wasted it, but it was fine, it was how it was meant to be. He had never had a chance. Some people are destined to be alone and Yuri was one of them.

Now Victor was as good as dead: deep inside Yuri was not yet ready to accept the idea. He couldn’t. He dropped to the floor, hands hanging between thighs, and hung his head. He wished for the possibility to go back in time to restart everything once again, as his mistakes and ignored opportunities laid before him.

 

Later, somehow, moving as if in trance, Yuri got on a plane bound stateside. He flopped back into his seat, and with trembling fingers, he opened the paper Victor had secretly slipped into his rucksack. It was a letter.

 

_~~Private Katsuki~~ _

_~~To: Yuri Katsuki~~ _

__

_~~My~~ _ _~~dearest~~ , Dear Yuri,_

_I hope you will forgive me if I confess to you that I’m glad to have had the luck to spend these past days with you. I know it sounds inappropriate in the light of the most recent events – no words can express my deepest sympathy and concern - but those days have truly been the brightest in my life after a long time. I will cherish them jealously for all the time I will be granted onto this Earth. I’m well aware you don’t remember our true first encounter, back at the banquet in Geneva in 1985, but let me tell you that if the price to pay for what my life had become was to meet you, I wouldn’t change anything._

_I am a too clever man to confuse love with infatuation and I know that men – especially old, tired men like me - love to surround themselves with illusions to survive in this world. But I also know that the love able to bind a person forever to another one may as well as come from a well cultivated infatuation **.**_

_I think I have loved you since they night we first met._

_Unfortunately Fate had not granted us the right conditions to cultivate this blossoming feeling. It saddens me deeply. But my love had been in every little gesture you accepted from me; in all the times your shy nature had welcomed my touch._

 

Yuri had to stop reading because the words started to move on the page, and his vision was becoming blurry. He ducked his head, brought the letter to his chest, there where his heart was beating faster than usual. He could hear it pounding in his ears

_If we lived in a different world, I would’ve dared to invite you to dinner and I’d be on a plane bound to America. Or to Japan. Or wherever you want to go. Instead an iron curtain, a war, and people prejudices separate us._

 

Yuri felt his breath hitch in his throat. He coughed once to get rid of the imaginary lump in it. Then he coughed a second time because his throat kept feeling tight. The sensation was familiar and extraneous at the same time, like something not experienced for a long time. Yuri brought a hand grasp under his chin, on his Adam Apple. Just like his throat was tight, his heart felt heavy. If sadness had a taste, it couldn’t be different from the one that was in his mouth right now.

Right after Phichit’s death, Yuri had felt pain and desperation. Now he had no other words to describe this feeling other than sadness; pure, simple, necessary sadness. 

 

_In my arrogance, I dare to believe that my feelings are reciprocated. If not, burn this letter and make me a memory, one of those destined to fade. But if I am right, I pray to be able to reach you before someone else steals your heart. One day._

_With love,_

_Victor_

 

When he finally read the signature, Yuri already had tears streaming down his cheeks. He balled the letter in his fist; his tight chest was now shaking with irregular sobs. All the emotions he had repressed in the past days, the pain he had pushed back into his guts, they were all coming back full force in that very moment. It was a wave about to drown him.

Yuri cried for Phichit. He was crying for Leo. He was crying for Chris and Guang Hong, who would have to learn to live with survivor’s guilt. He cried for Emil. He cried for Michele.

He cried for the stranger he had killed. He cried for Yuri Plisetsky and his stolen youth. He cried for Victor, for a Destiny that was cruel and maybe didn’t even exist, but still was perfect to blame.

Eventually, he cried for himself

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. We’re almost there. I can smell the ending of this project. The mission has ended and finally I was able to write the letter scene. I had it ready since ages. Poor, poor Victor. But I swear everything will be fine.  
> Chapter 11 is about to be betated and will be the real ending (as chapter 12 is more of a stand-alone scene that I couldn’t fit the flow of the rest of the narrative).  
> I suggest to listen to “You’re my sunshine” at the end of the chapter, as the song fit well with Victor’s feeling.  
> I’ve also made two aesthetics, one for Yuri and one for Victor.
> 
> http://gwen-chan.tumblr.com/post/160158669672/he-swore-he-would-survive-and-for-doing-so-he  
> http://gwen-chan.tumblr.com/post/160048880742/gwen-chan-katsuki-yuri-military-au-he-was
> 
> Seikotash is always a great beta. I’ll gosh about her support next chapter, but she deserves everything.  
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


	11. It Takes Two To Heal

**It Takes Two To Heal**

 

For Yuri the mission elbow to elbow with Victor Nikiforov was the last during his military career. After a six-month deployment tour in Afghanistan, he was sent back to the US in the late spring of 1988.

He cared little for the events that shaped that hot summer. Most of them came to his attention through people speaking with monotonous voices over the radio and on the TV or via the newspaper headlines. Apparently, Gorbachev had decided to pull the Soviet troops from Afghanistan, among other things.

The irony.

Still the news didn’t impact Yuri all that much. It wasn’t like he didn’t care. He simply couldn’t. The Yuri Katsuki during those months immediately after the mission had lost the ability to feel anything; from joy to anger, from relief to pain, all was washed out by a grey apathy.

 

Of course, politics weren’t the only thing that made people chatter and gossip.

After the Winter Games in Calgary in February, which Yuri had followed with as much as he could, the world was preparing to see how Seoul would host the Summer Games. For the first time in ages both the US and the USSR teams would participate at the same time. It was a strong political symbol indeed, showing how the world was changing. Ignoring the unrest in the countries under the Soviet dominion was becoming more and more difficult. Protests ere shaking Poland, under the flag of Walesa’s Solidarność, and the Latvian flag had been risen again in Riga for first time in years.

 

Yuri, however, would reflect on these matters long after they had occurred. At that time, his days unrolled in a blissfully boring routine of training, other military duty, and mandatory meetings with a psychologist as ordered from higher ups. In the first sessions Yuri had closed up, guilty down to his bones. Insomnia tormented him, just like how the nightmares did when he finally managed to slide into sleep’s embrace. Of course, he couldn’t say anything about his regretful and bleeding heart; the words Victor wrote him, now smudged by Yuri’s tears and sweaty fingerprints, still danced before his eyes. They showed what he could’ve had if he hadn’t been a coward. But then, the sessions weren’t meant to solve his love problems. He shouldn’t have love problems at all in the first place.

 

Yuri had left a piece of himself in Afghanistan.

Surely, he would heal in due time. Everything is destined to heal if it doesn’t kill you. With time and the occasional help of some pills, nightmares and memories subsided; just like a once broken bone that hurts only when it rains.

In November Yuri was deployed once again, with the proper paperwork attesting his passing mental stability. Not even a month into the whole, familiar routine Yuri decided he had had enough. He was thirty-five, his birthday just passed, and had spent almost half his life in the Army. Now he felt a deep desire to go home, not to the US, but to his hometown in Japan. He acquired the necessary documents for the visa as soon as he had the occasion.

Around April 1989, not quite a year after the _mission_ , Yuri became an Inactive Reservist with the rank of Specialist. Although he had mentally planned to leave the US as soon as possible, the various loose ends kept him there for another three months at least. Above all he had to organize the shipment of his most important belongings via boat, mostly books and various memorabilia; then there was the issue of selling his apartment in Detroit, where Yuri had lived in for so little it still felt strange. Finally, his Japanese passport had to be renewed, as Yuri had before cared little for the subject between his depression, the training, and the new deployment.

*** 

Yuri returned to Hasetsu in the autumn of 1989. After being away for more than fifteen years, he was finally back in his hometown.

Everything and nothing had changed. The town had indeed been heavily modernized, gaining a brand-new station among the other things; at the same time the fairy-tale atmosphere of a quiet place far from the maddening crowd remained. The children had replaced their parents, but the daily gestures were the same. The Castle uphill was still attracting visitors. The hot spring business still had its ups and downs, but the Katsuki’s family business persisted. 

Yuri didn’t go straight home though. Instead the first person he paid visit to was his old ballet teacher. Yuri knocked politely at the door of her old dance studio, with the music coming from inside muffled by the wooden door. 

 

“Come in!” the woman cried above the notes of what Yuri recognized as the ‘Dance of Hours’. He opened the door, took off his shoes, a habit he’d never forgotten, and quietly padded on the well polished wooden floor. The mirrors on the opposite wall were as shiny as he remembered them to be. The ballet barre was instead of a darker colour, having been replaced some years after he went away. The same had happened to the old stereo Minako used back in the Sixties, its usual place was now occupied by a brand new, glimmering silver one. She was on the floor, one leg outstretched in front of her and the other bent under her butt, back slightly arched in the beginning of a _port de bras._ Minako Oukukawa hadn’t aged a day, despite being already in her sixties. Yuri waited for her to finish the routine, in sacred silence.

“You’re good as always, Minako-sensei,” he just complimented her when she finally exited from her ending pose, an exquisite arabesque.

 

Minako squinted her eyes. Then, the moment she connected the man standing at the door with the sweet boy she had once taught, her mouth stretched in a wide smile.

“Yuri!” Minako exclaimed. She gestured for him to enter, before lowering the music volume. Age had made her shorter, so now she had to tilt her head back to look Yuri in the eyes.

“You’ve grown. Anyway, I don’t think you’re here for a dance lesson. Can I offer you some coffee?” Minako went on. Yuri politely declined.

“There are other people I have to meet,” he justified himself. 

“Understandable. Remember that my studio is always open, if you ever want to restart the ballet lessons.”

“I may be too old for that, unfortunately.”

“That’s for me to decide.”

 

The second visit Yuri paid was to his childhood friends. Yuko Nishigori  and her husband, Takeshi, had bought the local ice rink, the Ice Castle Hasetsu, from the previous owner, and had since then spent all their energy on the renovation of the facility. Lutz was home too, returning for a vacation after her last medal, silver at the Worlds. Thinking back, when Yuri had left Lutz and her two other triplet sisters weren’t born yet and Yuko and Takeshi were just teenagers; it made his chest clench in nostalgia. The town, the world, had moved on without him and he couldn’t do anything but catch up. It was like having woken up on a train ride after a long nap and not knowing where he was. 

 

Yuko Nishigori was still as pretty as when she was younger. She had now grey threads in her otherwise auburn hair and her hips had widened after the last pregnancy. A five-year old boy was standing at her side. 

For Yuri entering the Ice Castle after such a long time was like diving into a dream. Nothing was like he remembered from his childhood, and yet everything was like it was supposed to be. 

“It’s been a while, Yuko-San,” he greeted her.

“Yuri!” she exclaimed in response. “You have grown! Did you receive my last letter?” – Yuri had. Only he hadn’t the strength to answer – “Anyway, how long will you stay? And call me Yuu-chan. We were childhood friends after all,” Yuko continued, smiling with affection. Her son grabbed her by the sleeve of her jumper.

“You must be Salchow!” Yuri intervened, recalling the times Yuko had referred to her youngest kid in her letters. The boy bit his lips, half hiding behind his mother’s legs. Then with some gentle push from her, he bowed a little.

“Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Ok, now go back playing. Are your skates tight enough?” Yuko asked Salchow. The boy nodded, lifting his foot to have his mother inspect the laces. Once given the ok, he ran away.

“Another precocious fan of figure skating?” Yuri commented, watching the kid sliding on the ice with a sureness that suggested he was put in skates before he could walk.

“You bet! What about you!? Why don’t you join him?” Yuko proposed out of nowhere. Sometimes the best way to catch up with an old friend is diving deep into something both enjoyed to do.

“I haven’t worn a pair of skates in ages!” Yuri protested. “Plus I’m tired. Hours of flight, you know,” he added, trying to get away.

Yuko waved away his worries. 

“I’m not asking you to jump. Can you still stand without falling?”

“Yes. I guess.”

Well, Yuri considered under Yuko’s insistent look, maybe it was worth giving it a try. After all, maybe due to the years in the Army, he wasn’t feeling as tired as he should’ve been. Even considering that he hadn’t closed his eyes in the last twenty-four hours.

“Your number is still 27, right?” Yuko inquired, gesturing for him to follow to where the skates were held. Having received confirmation, she picked up a pair on the third shelf.

“Here!”

 

Yuri grabbed the skates, put them on – tying them wasn’t very different from tying combat boots -, and took the first step on the freshly resurfaced ice, hands on the rail.

Yes, he could still stand. Keeping near the rails, he slowly tried the first slide, feeling the way the blade cut into the icy surface. It was like riding a bicycle, his body had never forgotten the movements, he soon discovered.

What could it have been: a life with him continuing to train under Minako and skating every Sunday afternoon. 

He swallowed it down. 

Yuko showed him a simple exercise, figures to teach control of body weight on the blades’ edges. It was indeed boring and repetitive, but Yuri found it strangely soothing.

 

It was already late evening when Yuri finally dragged his feet home. He sighed. He was home. He was home and still had the sensation of being a guest. 

He slid the front door open, crying out Japanese words that felt familiar, despite not having used the language much in the past years. 

“I’m home!”

Yuri’s raucous voice echoed in the aisle. He toed off his shoes, let his bag slide off his shoulder, and padded across the wooden floor toward the dining room. His mother ran in his direction as soon as she spotted him.

Honestly, Yuri couldn’t imagine being held by his chubby mother so tightly that she almost lifted him up. 

And Yuri understood. He comprehended how his parents had never wanted to abandon him, showing their deepest affection by offering what they believed was the best they could give him: a better future. They couldn’t have known he would enlist. They hadn’t imagined. 

Yuri returned the embrace. 

 

His mom had become smaller in height but stayed puffy and round just like Yuri remembered her. Her hair was now grey, groomed in the same bob cut she always sported. After having hugged him, she brushed her hands against her apron, took his bag and invited Yuri to take a dip in the hot springs. He gladly complied.

 

The moment he stepped into the warm open-air pool, closely guarded by the statue of an ancient and traditional divinity, a profound tiredness fell on him. His limbs felt heavy, but at the same time the dull ache still in them disappeared. Yuri swam slowly towards the pool brim, sliding into the water up to his chin. He let his head tilt back, using his arm as leverage, and closed his eyes. Sweat due to the vapour beaded his forehead. He run fingers through his wet hair, pushing them back. It had grown quite a bit since Yuri left the Army.

 

After the bath, Hiroko fed Yuri a bowl of his favourite food, the katsudon he had often dreamt of while away. Not having had it in years, he devoured the portion in seconds and helped himself a second and a third time.

Then, as the thought of being home after so long time became too much to bear, he let the chopsticks fall into the bowl and abruptly broke into silent tears. 

“I’m fine,” he sniffed, shying away from his mother. He felt her stare on him, along with the ones of his father and sister. Yuri had always been a reserved person; the Army had only amplified the trait.

No matter the culture or the context, he had always been taught that men don’t cry; above all they never cry in front of someone. Yuri had lost count of the number of times he had cried in secret, whether from fear or anxiety or sadness. He had forgotten the last time when he had cried before someone else. He put down the rice bowl and excused himself.

 

His bedroom was even smaller than he had recalled. Most of the knicks-knacks once on the desk had been put away; the shelves were empty apart from some old books he hadn’t brought with him to the US. No pictures or posters decorated the walls. Indeed it was a room with no life, where no one had stepped in for years, if not for dusting. It smelled like the past, showing memories of a teenage boy reading manga in between homework, splayed on the wooden floor.

Yuri flopped on the neatly done bed. He noticed his travel bag next to it. His mother must have brought it here after he had let it fall in the hall. Yuri reached out to bring it between his legs. He was about to start sorting clothes– all well packaged – when a knock at the door made him lift his head.

His eyes met with his older sister. Mari Katsuki was holding a half-smoked cigarette between her index and medium finger. A hair band was pulling back her bleached hair. Almost in her fifties, after a problematic marriage she had divorced and went back to the hot spring resort to help with the new rush of customers.

Mari took a drag off her cigarette.

“Mom and dad hadn’t been very clear about your intentions. Do you plan to stay?”

Yuri unzipped his bag. “Yes. Honestly, I still have to decide what to do, but I won’t leave Hasetsu anytime soon.”

“You’ve grown,” Mari went on.

“Yes, it happens with time.”

_I had to._

The mattress squeaked as Mari sat next to him. She squeezed him in a side-embrace. “You know, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

*** 

Around February 1991 a letter with no address, but Yuri’s name scribbled in Latin letters on the envelope, appeared in the Yu-topia mailbox. Written in Victor small and sharp hand-writing, it read:

 

_My dear Yuri,_

_I vividly hope that this letter will find you in short time. I trust Mila’s ability to find anyone, anywhere._

_Yura says that I’m pathetic. Yakov says that I’m too old for this shit and he’s too old for listening to me pining. I guess he’s right. I’m forty now, a sad man in mid-life crisis running after a crush like a teenager. I hope you’ll forgive me._

_I suppose you’ve heard about the quite recent Berlin Wall Fall. It caused several turmoil in the Soviet high ranks. Things are changing. I can feel it._

_Talking about you, hoping to receive a response seems a too big dream to be true, despite the recent developments make me almost believe soon it won’t be so unreachable. I used to believe that a crush would subside with time, but it hasn’t. Yuri, it hasn’t._

_Victor_

It took Yuri a while before he could regain his composure. At dinner he made some kind of excuse for his puffy, red eyes.

_***_

In the summer of the same year Yuri finally gathered enough courage to pay a visit to the Chulanont family.

 

He had sent a message of condolences to the Chulanonts about three months after Phichit’s death, after a suggestion from his psychologist. After having spent a whole week trying to express his feelings - or, better, to find some feeling to express during his apathy - in a properly written letter, Yuri had given up the idea for a detached telegram. There he apologised for both the message style and Corporal Chulanont’s Fate. Two sentences were all it had taken. The Chulanonts had thanked him with an even shorter message. From then Yuri had stopping hearing from them.

He, however, knew that Phichit’s body at been retrieved - at least what was left of him – his remains were sent back to his family in California and cremated according to the Buddhist tradition.

 

Yuri hadn’t warned Phichit’s parents of his arrival. He had just checked if they still lived where Phichit had told him, in a flat above the family’s bakery Terra Incognita in the Thai quarter in San Francisco. Phichit’s youngest brother lived in the next-door apartment with his wife and three kids, helping his father with frosting cakes and pastry decorations. The other three brothers: the eldest worked in a sweet factory in Chicago, the middle-one opened a fast food like restaurant specializing in Thai dishes, and the second-to-last born had followed Phichit’s steps.

Phichit’s older sister had gone back to Bangkok where she was struggling to keep open a consultancy studio specializing in domestic quarrels; the other sister had Phichit’s same talent for IT and left college during her third semester to join some ex-classmates in the Silicon Valley. Meanwhile she was working on animation software for 3D graphics.

Thus, when Yuri knocked at the Chulanont’s door, dressed in one of his best suits, the Chulanont spouses indeed couldn’t completely hide their surprise. It was Mrs. Chulanont who opened the door, dressed in a traditional _sampot chang kben_ under an embroidered tunic, her grey hair held in a low bun. Her husband sat at the kitchen table, the smell of fried mushroom soaking the air. Some program in Thai was going on at the TV, alternated by the comments by TV reporters for a baseball match between two minor teams as Mr. Chulanont flipped between channels.

Lawan Chulanont looked at Yuri. She recognized him from the photos Phichit had often sent home and the description he had filled his letters with.

Yuri didn’t give her time to say anything, as he dropped down in a _dogeza_ , hands on the ground, as soon as the door was opened.

“I am deeply, utterly sorry for your son’s death,” he began, head low. “I apologise for not having paid you a visit earlier. Corporal Chulanont was a dear friend. My best friend I dare to say. There’s not a day I don’t blame myself for his death. Trust me, if I could I would trade places with him anytime.”

He waited for an answer, whatever it might have been. He didn’t dare hope for forgiveness.

 

In his peripheral vision, Yuri saw Lawan Chulanont crouching next to him. She lightly touched his chin with her old hands, strong hands used to knead the dough and carry sacks of flour, forcing him to raise his head. She had deep, black eyes, the same as Phichit’s. Indeed her son had inherited most of her features.

“You don’t have to apologise. It must have been hard for you,” she began. Yuri nodded, standing up. She then offered him a cup of tea, to warm up as they spoke. Since it would have been rude to refuse, Yuri accepted. After all, tea was a cure-all. And even if tea couldn’t cure everything, it surely could make things better; just like it was speaking with the Chulanont. When Yuri left their home, way later than he had predicted, politely refusing the invitation to stop for dinner, his soul felt lighter.

 ***

 

Victor wrote various letters to Yuri from 1991 to 1993. Yuri was pretty sure the few he received, were outside the postage system, were only the peak of the iceberg. Every letter ended up with Victor expressing his intention not to write anymore, only to change his mind at the first occasion. It hurt not being able to answer, but Yuri had neither an address nor a number to contact.

Victor’s letters were quite soothing, talking about everything and nothing, with some information about his life in the Army slipped carefully in between lines. Apparently after the withdrawal of the Soviet troops from Afghanistan, Victor had been gently forced to abandon the field in favour of some office job he never lost occasion to complain about.

 

Unfortunately, one of the most important of Victor’s letters got lost somewhere between Moscow and Hasetsu, forgotten for almost two whole years in some mail-processing centre. When it finally arrived in Hasetsu it was already 1993, the news brought by the letter old. It felt strange reading those words and imagining Victor slowly losing hope to ever receive an answer.

There was also another letter in the mailbox, more recent. Yuri opened it first.

 

_My dear Yuri,_

_Mila says I must be patient. Probably you moved or my last letter got lost in the chaos that is international mail **.** It’s in time like these that I regret not having sent you a telegram. _

_I’m happy and glad you can’t see me now, because I’m a total mess. I’m even worst than Jora when Anya dumped him. It was thirty years ago. Thirty years. Time flies so fast._

_At the end there’s my new address –_ it was encoded - _. Whether you want to make me the happiest man on Earth or definitely break my heart, inviting me to exit your life, I beg you to answer me._

When Yuri opened the oldest letter his hands were shaking.

_My dear Yuri, it’s over._

_I confide that you have read the newspapers, so I don’t bring anything new. Apparently I’ll have to start referring to my country as nothing more than Russia._

_I want to leave the Red Army as soon as possible. I think I’ve paid my debt and I want to cherish what I still have of soul away from it. Honestly, I don’t know what could I do, how to reinvent myself, but maybe the retirement pension may be enough to guarantee a nice lifestyle at least at the beginning. Still our economy is crushing, so my hopes aren’t all that high._

_Yura talks more and more about opening a restaurant when he’ll resign. Can you see it? The Ice Tiger at the stoves. Do you remember that dish you told me once? Apparently Yura wants to put it into a pirozh. Up to now his experiments weren’t very successful, but he says it cannot be more difficult than crossing the Afghan desert on foot._

_Jora had finally obtained that promotion to Major he desired so much. He’s also got married with a nice girl from Odessa. I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time._

_I imagine you are curios also about Captain Altin, since I’ve talked about the other two. Well, from what I’ve heard, he’s running to become mayor of his hometown. Yura says he has also joined one of the major parties in Kazakhstan and he’ll probably have a seat in the parliament if that party have enough votes._

_Please, write to me._

_With all my affection_

_Victor_

In the postscript Victor had added the home address he had at the time, the information once again encoded for safety sake. It screamed hope for an answer he had waited months to receive. He must have waited, forcing himself to forget and move on, until he had decided to pick up the pen once again, one last time, to write yet another letter.

 ***

 

Victor hadn’t been the only one to keep in contact with Yuri. Indeed, Guang Hong wrote to him at least a letter every two weeks, always lamenting Yuri’s delay in replying. It had been Guang Hong who convinced him to sign-up for an e-mail service; however deep inside, Yuri was still attached to the old means of communication, so they were more the times he received a web message from Guang Hong than the ones he actually sent back.

Internet connection was still slow in Hasetsu, in comparison to the nearest big cities, having been installed only few months prior; contrary to what happened in Fukuoka or Tokyo where the Internet usage for private purpose was already wide spread, in Hasetsu for the first months there were only four major internet users: the town hall, the school, the ER, and the Yu-topia Katsuki. The Nishigoris’ Ice Castle Hasetsu was the fifth to jump on the bandwagon.

 

Guang Hong, who was now thirty-four and had risen above his station up to been promoted Second Lieutenant, had spent the last six months in Bosnia and Officer Candidate School. In the most recent letter, he was debating whether resign or pursue a further career in the military. That was three months ago, though. What Yuri knew for sure was that Guang Hong at the time was writing from Beijing, hosted by some relatives. He lamented how much he felt like a foreigner, without any link to his parents’ homeland other than his genes and features.

 

Chris was the second to write Yuri the most, albeit most of his correspondence was short messages asking about how he and his family were doing on major holidays. From what Yuri had heard, Christophe went inactive a year after him, polished his specialization in Medical studies, and opened a clinic near Arlington. A photo turned postcard showed him in full ski attire on St. Moritz ski runs with a brown-haired man. They both waved holding their ski poles smiling above the heavy scarves.

 

About Crispino, the last time Yuri had heard news regarding him had been last March with a small and messy letter accompanying an Easter Greeting Card. Resigned in 1991 with the rank of Sergeant First Class, Michele had joined the police force in New York. His beloved Sara had become a reporter for the New York Times. Victor talked about her in one of the few letters that Yuri received.

 

_Do you remember Sergeant Crispino? The world truly is small. Anyway, Mila had met and befriended her sister while the latter was based in Moscow […]_

Yuri also knew that once a year the Crispinos visited the cemetery where Emil was buried, near Prague.

Finally, out of all them, Jean-Jacques was the only one who had stuck with the Army without any doubt. According to the most recent news Yuri had of him. Now a Captain, his last deployment had him in Kuwait. He then joined the UN peacekeeping forces and operated in Tajikistan. In the meanwhile, he’d married with his lifelong fiancée.

 ***

Yuri stared intensely at the pen hovering just above the paper. It felt strange, not to say absurd, to answer all at once to a bunch of letters received over the years. Time had passed and Yuri couldn’t ignore the fact. He couldn’t ignore it as he re-read for the umpteenth time the first of Victor’s letters that had come to Hasetsu, smoothing all the wrinkles caused by having fiddled with it so many times he had lost count.

At the beginning, Yuri had promised to himself he would write down a comment for each single letter right after having read them for the first time. He wished to put down his pure, immediate emotions before they could slip away. Those sparse sentences, however, had never become anything more, even though Yuri had saved them all in a drawer of his bedside table.

 

 

“ _My dear Victor,_

 _I’ll cut to the chase: how many possibilities do you think we have? We’re grown men. We won’t have the time young people are given. I tell you, my heart is full of doubts_ –”

 

Not even the third line in and Yuri was already dissatisfied with how the letter was turning out. Every word seemed wrong the moment it was translated from his mind to the paper. Having to write in English then made everything way worse than what already was. The English language didn’t have all the nuances of Japanese, nuances that would’ve been perfect for Yuri’s purpose at the moment. Still, not even Japanese was enough to express the turmoil he was experiencing.

He scratched out the entire letter and balled it up and threw it on the floor. Waiting again for weeks or months or even years for an answer seemed now like a torture he couldn’t stand anymore.

 

“LETTERS RECEIVED STOP” was all he managed to write down in the end.

 

The answer arrived within the following two weeks, covered in stamps and postmarks indicating a high level of urgency. Yuri didn’t doubt Victor had used all the power and privileges connected to his name to get special treatment.

 

“I AM GLAD STOP

(812) 093-49-87 STOP”

*** 

 

International calls were expensive, but for once Yuri couldn’t care less. As he dialled a number he had repeated so many time he knew it by heart, he just promised to himself he would pay the bill.

Yuri counted five rings. To calm down he focused on imagining what was happening on the other side of the line; the phone disrupting the quiet of a lazy Russian morning, the recipient not running to answer, but waiting to see if the call was really important and worth the effort of rising to pick it up. He pictured an old phone trilling louder and louder, like a whiny brat in need of attention, till came the huff of surrender, accompanied by naked feet on a cold floor, a yawn and an ear pressed to the receiver.

“Hello?”

It took Yuri all his self-control not to hang up right there. Victor had spoken in Russian, the answer surely embedded in his brain. His voice was lower than Yuri remembered, hoarse with the suggestion of a not quite yet healed cold. He tightened his grip on the receiver, breath warm and humid against the speaker.

 **“** Hello?” Victor repeated once again. The weariness in his voice was of a man who hadn’t slept in days. Yuri could feel it. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. It was like choking on sand.

“Iwantyoutocometojapan!” he finally sputtered out. In the rush he spoke in Japanese.

“What? I’m sorry, I don’t understand. If this is a prank, I’m not in the mood for-”

“I want you to come to Japan,” Yuri repeated, in English this time, terrorized by the possibility that Victor would end the call. The pause that followed didn’t last more than a breath, but felt like ages.

“Yuri?”

A name. Two syllables. Yet everything.

Just hearing his name, just knowing that Victor had recognized him, was enough for Yuri to unleash all the words he had repressed for years; all the answers he couldn’t give to the letters Victor sent him. He spoke like a river, a stream of consciousness with no logic.

“I love you. I’ve loved you for so long. You have no idea. You don’t know how I’ve felt every time a new letter arrived and you still loved me, even if I’m just _me._ I can’t wrap my head around the idea. I need to see you, Victor. I need you. I can pay for your plane ticket if you need or I can come to Russia, but I beg you don’t tell me no.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

 

Yuri hiccupped a laugh of relief. Behind him he could hear the lively hubbub of the hot springs. Hard work and money, loaned out by friends and occasionally sent home from Yuri, had helped the complex recover. While other businesses crumbled under the weight of the economic crisis that had hit the whole country, the Yu-topia Katsuki still survived. Good prices, perfect service, and great cooking attracted not only the people from Hasetsu, habitual clients, but also international tourists. Lately the hall reverberated with a mingle of languages, English mixed with Japanese, French and Chinese, Spanish, and Russian. There wasn’t a night that guest rooms were left empty or hot springs without people soaking in them.

But Yuri couldn’t care less of what was happening behind his shoulders. All he cared about were the sounds in his ear, the one still attached to the plastic receiver.

When Victor spoke again, Yuri’s legs trembled like he was back being an emotional teenager.

“I feared I would never hear these words from you. I was starting to lose hope,” Victor whispered. Even if Yuri couldn’t see him, he was sure the man speaking to him wasn’t that General Nikiforov he had idolized for so long. This Victor was the man who had almost caressed him on a cold Afghan night, the one who almost dropped to his knees, desperately begging him to stay.

“If it had been in my power, I would’ve answered your very first letter.”

 

They talked about everything and nothing, the wristwatch hand ticking nonstop. Yuri could feel his sister’s disapproving look on his back. Mari Katsuki huffed.

“You know, the phone is for taking reservations!” she whispered in Yuri’s free ear. He made a quick gesture, muttering something in the Kyushu dialect under his breath. He agreed with Victor, he would call once more to go over the details for his travel to Japan. Little did he know it would take another six months of preparations. Six full months sweetly filled by ten page long letters.

When he regretfully hung up, a love-drawn smile was stretching his lips.

 

“I hope you had a good reason for occupying the phone for forty minutes!” Mari scolded him, arms crossed against her chest. Yuri grinned, head high in the clouds. He couldn’t care less about how the cost of a forty-minute international call would be extremely expensive.

“Absolutely,” he answered, before rushing up the stairs to check an old, unused banquet room on the second floor. No way he would’ve let Victor sleep in an hotel room.

 

He also crossed out a box on the calendar.

*** 

The day Victor’s plane left St. Petersburg, once Leningrad, Yuri woke up at four in the morning, despite knowing the flight would last at least ten hours, not taking layovers into consideration. He got dressed, sipped a cup of strong coffee, and headed out to the train station right away. The night was still heavy on Hasetsu, the roads empty except for a few people wandering around.

At the station, Yuri paid for a ticket to board the first train to Fukuoka, dropped on a sit next to the window, and let his mind drift to sleep. His cheek was pressed against the cold window. 

When the board welcoming visitors to Fukuoka appeared, the sky was becoming a nice purple colour, with stripes of deep oranges and reds of the rising sun. Yuri stretched out his back and arms, bringing them high above his head. He blinked in the damp morning air. He glanced down at his wristwatch, taking mental notes of the hours he still needed to wait.

Fukuoka Airport was, like hundreds of others, eerily lively with a nonstop activity of arrival and departure. 

 

People just stepped off from their flights, backs stiff and legs all pin-and-needles, and wandered around the conveyor belt casting hopeful glances each time they thought they recognized their luggage. Yuri watched the crowd disperse little by little, leaving behind only the unlucky ones who stood there not yet ready to admit their suitcases had gotten lost.

Some fathers transported their sleeping kids on their backs. Mothers lulled their crying babies, while their older children munched on buttery pastries for breakfast.

There were businessmen and salary men, still in their rumpled suits carrying their briefcases while continuously checking their watches, phones in hand. Just down one flight and ready to take another one.

A little more over, a teacher was checking that no one in his class had gotten lost, a pen checking off a list for each name answered.

 

Yuri headed to the nearest café, where he ordered his second coffee of the day and, after a moment of reflection, a sandwich because indeed his stomach had startled to grumble.

“Leaving or waiting for someone?” the barista asked.

“Waiting,” Yuri answered, lost in his thoughts. He pointed at his lack of luggage to underline the fact. The sandwich was a bit dry, more bread than ham, so he bought a bottle of water to swallow it down.

The recent years in Hasetsu had spoiled him with good cooking, he had to admit, a thing that his now chubbier body showed well. Yuri had never stopped physically exercising, he went jogging at least four times a week and sometimes he skated at the ice rink. Nevertheless, a soft layer of fat had covered his muscles, especially on his belly area and his cheeks. After all, helping as a waiter and with finances at Yu-topia wasn’t a tough work. Neither was aiding Minako with the class of 3-4 years old at the dance studio.

 

When the third coffee he drank started to kick-in, it became impossible to sleep or even stand still. Yuri started to pace around. He walked the entire floor perimeter, took a walk up to the second floor and down again. He quickly passed a series of anonymous shops, filled with people making their last-minute purchases, lifting T-shirts with kitsch stamps and free-taxation bottles of perfume.

By the time the speakers announced the arrival of the flight Victor was on, Yuri was sure to have created a trench in the boarding area, with the fast pace he had, curtesy from his years in the Army.

 ***

Just like Minako, Victor hadn’t age much. Instead time had been kind to him, adding just few wrinkles to his face. Despite his fear of becoming bald, he had still all his silver hair, although the hairline had receded a bit. There were bluish circles under his eyes and he walked with the stiffness of a person who had stayed still for hours. Victor’s hair was messy, flattened on the side he probably had slept against. A slight curve bent his shoulders.

He had no other luggage apart from a hand-suitcase and an old backpack.

 

If Yuri had planned to keep cool, its will shattered the moment he recognised Victor in the crowd and when Victor had spotted him as well.

“Did the flight go well? I hope so. Do you have any other luggage? Are you tired? Are you hungry? There’s a nice place with great food not far away,” Yuri blabbered and fidgeted as soon as Victor approached. It was extremely strange to be finally face to face after all those years, neither lovers nor friends nor even strangers. Yuri rubbed his nape waiting for an answer. His eyes wandered around.

 

Victor said nothing. He only put a finger on Yuri’s lips. It came unexpectedly, yet not unwelcomed.

Then Victor cupped Yuri’s cheeks in his hands, thumbs resting on the man’s jaw-line. He leaned forward. Yuri didn’t move.

Victor’s lips were dry and chapped, but the kiss was slow and gentle. It began chastely, lips brushing together. It then opened, little and innocuous bites at each other bottom lips. It was a kiss you would normally associate with young, passionate people, but Yuri didn’t care. He grabbed Victor’s silver tufts between his fingers, lingering in the sensation of having the Russian’s hand cradling his nape as it had happened all those years ago, in a whirlwind of sand.

“I didn’t even know I missed this,” Yuri whispered, forehead pressing against Victor’s. For a single blessed moment, he was oblivious to the busy airport around them.

 

Yuri barely registered the rest of the day.

 

By the time, they could finally leave the airport, after all the due customs controls, it was already late afternoon. Thus, once in Hasetsu about an hour later, Yuri headed right away to the restaurant he mentioned earlier. As much as he wanted to give Victor a taste of the Yu-topia dishes - Yuri still hadn’t found a katsudon as well cooked - he knew they would have no intimacy in the hot springs dining room. A table for two in a nice restaurant on the coast was indeed a nicer scenario. Just like several other businesses in town, the restaurant was the only survivor of this category. Most people preferred to eat at cheaper locations, like the ramen restaurant near the ninja castle or the Yu-topia itself. More often, especially youth, they took the train to Nakasu where all the trendy places were.

 

Saying that they were so deeply into each other that they didn’t care about food would be an understatement. But after having been on a plane for more than half a day where the lunch being served had been anything but edible, Victor was starving so much he would ate the tablecloth. Also, Yuri had to admit that munching here and there at the airport hadn’t filled his stomach at all.

 

As they ate Yuri couldn’t ignore Victor glances in his direction. He lifted his head from his plate.

“Something wrong?” he inquired, his chopsticks in mid air.

Victor’s answer was straightforward. “You gained weight,” he considered out loud. Yuri let the chopsticks fall onto the plate.

“Oh,” he murmured. “I know. Is that bad?”

“Not at all,” Victor assured him. You look…,” He trailed off in search of the right word to use. He had a thing for tapping his lips when thinking, Yuri noticed. Just like he noticed the rice grains still glued to Victor’s chopstick or the drop of grease on his lower lip.

“What?” he insisted, eating from Victor’s hand.

“Happier.”

 

It was true, but then it was an easy one.

“You have this sparkle in your eyes. It’s like you’re glowing,” Victor continued. In his letters, he had never been shy with his compliments, so no surprise he wasn’t in real life. His own eyes were shining too with joy, love, and adoration; his words were only expressing his deep need to show them. Yuri would swear to have seen a light blush spreading on Victor’s nose bridge, painting his fair skin rose pink. He poked his food.

“You could say the Army had never been my place,” he confessed half-heartily. Unable to keep his hands still, he started drawing circles around the brim of the glass.

“You’re not the only one.”

Yuri lifted his gaze. While Victor had already expressed his dissatisfaction with the ambience in the Red Army in between line of his letters, nothing could compare with him saying it out loud.

“I guess we all have left something there,” Yuri reflected, taking a sip of wine – a low- alcoholic content one. “Our youth,” he guessed.

“Or our innocence,” Victor corrected him. Yuri shrugged, thanking for the distraction when the waiter took the now empty plates away.

“Do you want dessert?” He asked Victor to bring back the conversation to lighter tones

“Gladly.”

He ordered two slices of warm lemon pie topped with lemon ice cream. Victor even ate the crumbles.

 

Sated with dinner, but not yet sleepy, they walked on unsure legs up to Victor’s apartment.

About a month before leaving Russia, Victor had asked Yuri to search for a little apartment for him to live in. In truth, the exact words he had used were “for us”, on the phone, but he had quickly corrected himself. Yuri was glad he did. As far as knowing that Victor would soon reach him in Japan, the thought of living under the same roof as a couple scared him a little. After all for years their love had been nothing more than pining letters. The doubt he - they - had loved an illusion persisted somewhere in the back of his mind. It was the small, cruel voice Yuri had heard in various forms since his teenage days and maybe even earlier. It had told him he wasn’t enough; it had told him he was a coward; that everything was his fault. Now it was telling Yuri his story with Victor had no hope to last.

He fought every day to subside it.

 

Yuri thus had found a nice two-room flat in the north area of Hasetsu, negotiated with the owner for the price and anticipated half the sum to secure the sale. Victor reimbursed him to the last cent within few weeks. The Russian man would pay in instalments for the other half.

 

Victor’s economic situation wasn’t bright. With the crumble of the Soviet Union and the consequent inflation of the economy, most of his wealth in Russian currency had poofed into nothing.

Luckily Victor had been smart enough to secure part of his liquidity in foreign and more solid banks, right under the nose of the Soviet government. Nevertheless, the economic crisis had hit him too; although in his Motherland he was wealthy, if not rich, his financial status wasn’t all that good in the rest of the western world. It was a good thing that Hasetsu real estate prices had crumbled under the pressure of the financial crisis Japan was experiencing. In truth, they had been quite low even before, as an attempt to combat the depopulation of the area.

 ***

 

As soon as they closed the door behind them, Victor cupped Yuri’s face once again. His lips had the lingering taste of the lemon pie they ate just moments ago. Yuri’s fingers went to anchor at the curve of Victor’s shoulders, as to find some kind of leverage. This time, after a moment of surprise, he answered the kiss fiercely. He let his mouth fall open, as his fingers grabbed the fabric of Victor’s wrinkled shirt. Victor still smelled like the airport.

“Yuri?!” Victor breathed against Yuri’s lips, the real question unspoken.

“Yes,” Yuri answered in haste, before manoeuvring Victor’s jaw to steal yet another kiss.

“You sure?”

“I had five years to think about it. I’m absolutely sure.”

 

Yuri gave himself an imaginary pat on the back for having bought a bottle of lube and a packet of condoms during a peak of confidence while shopping for groceries and essentials. That had been way too embarrassing; Yuri had felt like he was being observed all the way home and during the way to soon-to-be Victor’s flat. Now, however, the reassuring knowledge that those items were safely waiting in the first drawer of the bedside table made everything worth it.

They undressed at record speed. Later, with his tanned legs hooked around Victor’s fair waist and Victor still deep inside him, for Yuri was like every stolen touch, every not quite unrequited stare, every unsaid word was meant to bring him here. He recalled all the times during his late teenage years and early twenties when he had gotten off in secret with a similar picture in mind, dreaming the impossible.

He pressed his forehead against Victor’s chest. Pink and black spots danced before his half-lidded eyes, as Victor’s own orgasm shook both their bodies. Then they laid face-to-face.

“You are here,” Yuri murmured, reaching out to trace Victor’s profile with his right thumb. “You’re here.”

 

Victor’s body was covered in scars. Some were still quite recent, showing how the façade of perfection Victor Nikiforov had always shown to the cameras was indeed only a façade. It showed the man who had been wounded several times while in the field, the man who had to fall to take flight once again.

Others were older, way older, speaking of a troubled childhood and an abusive father.

“May I,” Yuri asked, carefully, fingers lingering above a pearly sign of a cut healed long time ago. Victor hummed his approval. He quivered nonetheless under Yuri’s touch.

He traced every single scar, never asking how Victor got them, but simply basking in that warm mixture of love and respect and awe from having Victor lying next to him. Yuri then moved Victor’s fringe to kiss him on the forehead, smiling against it. Fingers intertwined. Knees bumped into each other.

 

“What about this one?” Victor asked, pointing at a small scar on Yuri belly. Yuri chuckled. Contrary to Victor’s experience, the Army had been kind to his body when it hadn’t with his mind.

“Appendicitis, nothing important,” he shook it off. Nonetheless, Victor pressed his back against the mattress, gently, hovering over him. He leaned forward, meeting that portion of skin with his own lips.

“Everything about you it’s important,” he countered. A blush spread down on Yuri’s throat and chest. He covered his face like a virgin maiden. Victor took Yuri’s wrists, with a gentle but firm touch, and moved them away. Once a newspaper had mentioned General Nikiforov’s icy blue eyes as the epitome of his coldness and proficiency in the field. People couldn’t be more wrong. Victor’s eyes were nowhere cold. They had the depth of the sea in summer, the same mixture of mystery and tenderness. And under there was the memento of a danger never to be forgotten.

“Is this real?” Yuri wondered, as post-sex bliss was slowly replaced by his trademark anxiety. “Are you real? Is this a delusion?” he questioned, still touching Victor’s face.

“What if it was?”

“Don’t wake me up then.”

 ***

 

Those following weeks were full of activity, as both Yuri and Victor had to reinvent themselves and find a new path at an age when most people already had. Before leaving St. Petersburg, Victor had been offered more than a desk job in the Army, without considering all the proposals to venture into politics. However, as he told _them_ and Yuri, he couldn’t stand that environment any longer.

“I don’t want them to have any more of my life.”

 

As he told Yuri, he would find something. In any case, his retirement was enough to grant them a quiet comfortable life. Or he could finish the studies he had abandoned during his youth. The possibilities seemed endless. Yuri usually didn’t speak in those moments, just cherishing them, seeing how Victor seemed to beam with enthusiasm. He was _alive_ and breathing and human. This Victor was nowhere like the General Nikiforov the media knew. It was the real Victor Nikiforov, the _Vitya_ who had never truly died, and of which Yuri had seen portions already back in Afghanistan.

Sometimes it still felt unreal, but then Yuri dared to grab the other’s hand and he always received a squeeze back. A peaceful sensation settled down in his stomach.

There were still the nightmares, loud noises still made him uncomfortable, he still had anxiety crises at the worst moments, but for Victor was all the same and they could find comfort in each other. Victor understood.

 

They bought a nice apartment not far from Hasetsu about a year after Victor had reunited with Yuri in Japan. They adopted a dog, a poodle, just like Victor’s previous one. They put everything that could remind them of their years spent in the Army in a drawer and tried their best to forget about its existence. They spent days having fun with decorating, buying furniture, and painting the walls, with the silliness of newlyweds. It didn’t matter if they were already in their forties. Victor never missed the occasion to bemoan his regret of them not being able to properly marry.

“Well, maybe before we die,” Yuri used to reply. Meanwhile, not having any other relatives, Victor had arranged it for Yuri to inherit his belongings in case of his death.

“I’m old, Yuri!”

“You’re only forty-four!”

“Exactly, I’m old!”

At which Yuri ended up mocking Victor for his words and kissing his forehead.

 

 

And one morning, Yuri woke up with the space next to him empty but still warm from the body that had occupied it. There was the smell of coffee filling the air, as he padded up to the kitchen. The window was open, a salty breeze coming in and shuffling the mousseline curtains. Victor was standing at the stove, some eggs frying in the pan.

Yuri hummed. “They look delicious, Vitienka.”

Victor smiled.

 

_Et même si la route est bien longue à la fin_

_Et même si le doute nous fait serrer les poings_

_L'amour nous rassure, brise les murs_

_Des incertitudes_

_J'apprendrais à lire dans ton regard_

_Je serais le dernier des remparts_

_Rien ne sera plus comme avant,_

_Non c'est le début je le sens_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. I'll write thanks, reflections, other stuff and everything in between in the next and last chapter; but for now the story has ended. You can consider it an happy ending, but for me it has a bittersweet taste. Lot has been lost and it'll never come back.  
> This chapter has been probably the longest I'd ever written, but the flow was so nice I simply couldn't stop.
> 
> The last quote is from the French version of "At the beginning". It fit so nicely with the story that I decided to use it.
> 
> http://gwen-chan.tumblr.com/post/160411036582/military-au-victuuri-victor-wrote-various
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciate. My ask box is always open.


	12. Epilogue- The Blue Notebook

**Epilogue - The blue notebook**

 

“What are you doing?” Yuri asked, leaning against Victor’s back and putting his arms loosely around the man’s neck, fingers intertwined near Victor’s sternum. It was a normal weekday afternoon, few months after moving in. Victor was at his desk in their bedroom, completely focused on writing down something.

Yuri peered from above his companion’s shoulders, trying to get a glimpse of what Victor was writing neatly in Cyrillic. Yuri didn’t know the language well enough to understand it at first glance, but he had come to recognize his own name.  He put a hand to the page Victor was working on, to prevent the man from turning it. He then pressed a kiss on Victor’s crown.

“Come on,” Yuri joked, as Victor tried to hide the notebook with his own body. “No secrets between us. What is that?” he went on.

There was a pause, with Victor still half splayed over the desk, the notebook pressed under his chest. “Well?” Yuri insisted, sliding his fingers down to Victor’s hips and teasing the hem of his shirt tantalizingly. He knew very well how ticklish Victor was in that spot.

“You’re a cruel man, Yuri,” Victor protested. Nevertheless, he slowly pulled back, sighing. 

“Promise you won’t laugh, or find it creepy?”

He turned on the chair to face Yuri. Yuri lifted his pinkie finger.

“Pinkie swear.”

“And cross your heart,” Victor demanded.

Yuri obliged, tracing an exaggerated cross on his chest.

“And swear,” Yuri opened his mouth to obey,“ in Russian!” Victor specified.

 ”Now, you’re exaggerating! Come on!” Yuri mocked Victor, but there was nothing in his voice but soft affection. “When has General Nikiforov become so fearful?”

“I’m only fearful when it comes to love,” Victor defended himself. ”Can you blame me?”

 

Under Yuri’s impatient stare, he eventually reached back to grab the notebook and hand it to Yuri. The once bright blue cover had faded. There was “MADE IN USSR” blazed across the title page in big, capital letters, as did most of Victor’s belongings from his years in St. Petersburg. Yuri turned yet another page. His attention was immediately attracted to a small photo glued in the top left corner: it depicted himself; younger and serious, dressed in his Army uniform. He wondered where Victor could even get such a photo, but then he recalled Victor’s connections with some KGB officers. Yuri had little doubt Miss Mila Babicheva was involved. 

Yuri quickly turned the pages, eyes scanning over the lines of writing that filled them, sometimes broken up by photos here and there. _5 December 1985_ was the oldest date in the notebook and today’s date the most recent. 

“You wrote a dossier about me?” Yuri pondered out loud. Victor smiled sheepishly.

“Guilty,” he admitted.

“Why are you still writing it now?” Yuri asked after a while. Victor shrugged. 

“There’s always something new I discover and I want to write it down,” he justified himself. “I’m pathetic, am I not?”

 

Yuri shook his head. “Not at all,” he countered. Hastily, he tossed the blue journal into Victor’s lap. 

“Be back in a minute,” he shouted right after, already on his way out the room.

 

The minute soon turned into an hour. Between the still fairly recent move and the fact that he hadn’t opened it in a while, Yuri only had a vague idea of where the “Victor Nikiforov” dossier was. He was pretty sure of having seen it laying on the top of one of the boxes scattered around the newly built bookshelf, but apparently he was wrong. Those boxes regurgitated every kind of book, from narratives to politics, but not the one he wanted.

 

Then a flash of a yellow book peeking out from under the daily newspaper in the kitchen crossed his mind. Yuri followed it, finding the aforementioned newspaper, but no trace of the infamous notebook. Except for the fact that Victor had the tendency to grab the first thing available to chase flies away. And the last place Yuri had watched him trying to smash a fly was-

“Bingo!” he exclaimed, fingers curling around the notebook’s spine to pick it from between the couch cushions. He caressed the date on the first page with reverence

 

_08 March 1977_

He was twenty-three at the time, so young, so inexperienced. He was just a boy in a new, unforgiving environment, with a notebook hidden under his bunk bed. Little did he know of what he would go through.

The first part of the old dossier washed over him with all the memories of a young, diligent, and yet passionate past-self copying scribbled notes in nice handwriting, with the concentration of a man on a mission. The sentences were concise, the style military-like.

That section ended few weeks prior the infamous joint mission. The next following date was _5 May 1988_ , not even a five days after it. The words were quick and uncertain, smudged and by now barely legible. It had taken all of Yuri’s willpower to find the strength to write them, a rush of action in a sea of apathy. Ink had left a big splot on paper, like a tear.

 

_Victor Nikiforov said he loved me. Is it possible?_

_Is it possible to turn back time?_

 

12 February 1991

 

_Victor still affirms to love me. Is it possible to turn back time?_

 

When Victor’s second letter had made his way from St. Petersburg, once Leningrad, to Hasetsu, to Yuri’s hands, Yuri had slowly started coming to terms with the knowledge of having lost the opportunity of a lifetime. He would cherish the few good moments he had had with Victor and move on. Not that he wasn’t ready to wait, but he had no doubt that Victor, despite his words, would soon find someone else. 

Thus, when Yuri had read Victor’s still professing love for him, the room had started spinning around so much he had to sit down on the floor. Warm tears had splattered on his glasses.

 

19 January 1993

 

_I think I’ve had a heart attack. I didn’t know I missed his voice this much._

 

_He sounded so tired._

Yuri remembered how Mari had confronted him the very same night he called Victor for the first time on the phone. She asked for a little chat, with the tone she used when they were little to indicate there was a sibling matter to discuss. Mari couldn’t walk on eggshells, even if she wanted to.

“Who did you call?”

Yuri flushed, bit his lips, and started fidgeting. Although Mari knew something about how obsessed Yuri had been with Victor - General Nikiforov - as he had always slipped some information in his letters home, Yuri found it difficult to explain the whole situation. He feared a bit for Victor’s life, as Mari was a very protective sister. 

“Do you remember the Victor I wrote about?” Yuri started.

Mari snorted. “How couldn’t I?”

Yuri smiled sheepishly. “Well, I, he …” Yuri took a deep breath, tongue heavy.

“We fell in love.” 

 

Mari had been the first person Yuri had come out to, in a certain sense. In truth, there had never been an official declaration, a moment in his youth when he had gathered all his courage, sat down before his parents, and told them he liked both boys and girls, but mostly boys; and then, some years after, more specifically one man. It had never occurred.

Mari, however, had once caught Yuri kissing a boy behind the school building, just before heading home after lessons and the cleaning shift. It was around the last year of middle school.

So she had been the one to confront him, even back then, promising not to tell their parents, after a teenage Yuri had pleaded. Officially, she had never broken the promise, but Hiroko Katsuki was both a very observant woman and a mother: few things can escape such combo. It was not about behaviour, more about details, the way her son flushed when some classmates complimented him. Then came the letters, after Yuri enlisted, the first times Yuri had mentioned Victor Nikiforov. The seeds of a crush bound to grow into a full love were already there.

In the end Hiroko had told her husband, who was a bit old-fashioned but considered there could be worse things.

 

“Do you plan to move with him?” Mari questioned, cutting to the chase. Yuri sighed, the idea was still too new to think properly about.

“I don't know. In time, I guess. It’ll be nice, I suppose. I haven’t seen him in years. I would be happy just to have him not so far away.”

Another huff. “I don’t know.”

Yuri had put his head on his knees, a surging sadness descending over him, menacing to be as big as the happiness he had felt just moments ago. Mari squeezed his shoulder.

She didn’t lecture him in any way, even with the first-hand experience of a failed marriage, Mari refrained from pouring out negativity on her brother’s still lingering joy. After all, everything was better than the shell of man the US and the Army had sent back home. So she simply said: “I trust you'll make the right decision. Whichever it be, I’ll support you.”

“Thank you.”

Yuri had been glad to have a sister like Mari.

 

9 May 1993

 

_He’s coming to Hasetsu. One day and he’ll be here. Can a person feel fear and happiness and pain at the same time? God, I hope everything will be fine._

 

Yuri had to use all his willpower to not camp out at the airport after Victor called with the date and hour of his flight.

 

 

10 May 1993

 

There was quick and messy kanji, words written in Yuri’s native language in the haste of the moment. The handwriting was shaky.

 

_He kissed me and I was melting. He complimented me. I cannot stop smiling._

Then, few lines under, written so small as Yuri was afraid to put it on paper.

_We made love._

 

_He’s here. He’s here._

All over the page.

                      

20 September 1993

 

_Victor Nikiforov is my boyfriend. Former Red Army General, pride of Russia, Victor Nikiforov is my boyfriend. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t even know if it has really happened._

_Please, don’t wake me up._

 

Often Yuri wondered how to call what Victor was to him. Boyfriend was a too simple and dull word, good for teenagers, not for them. Victor wasn’t even his husband, technically; nor he was his lover or fiancé. Companion could be a better option, but Yuri wasn’t 100% sure.

Once he mentioned the problem to Victor. The man had chuckled. “Is it really important?”

Yuri had shrugged. “I guess not.”

 

The last ten pages were instead all the little ups and downs that came with living day-by-day with Victor. A fond smile curled Yuri lips as he read the last sentence, something about Victor being unable to cook rice without burning it.

 

“Yuri, everything fine?” Victor’s voice snapped Yuri back to reality. He glanced at the clock on the wall, squinting his eyes at the discovery Victor had been waiting for almost an hour and a half now. Yuri rushed back to him, apologizing profusely.

“Sorry for the wait,” Yuri breathed out. “I was looking for this,” he explained, showing the yellow notebook with the same anticipation of a child. He tilted it towards Victor, hands trembling when the Russian man accepted it. He shifted his weight from foot to foot in wait.

 

“Oh,” Victor whispered as he shuffled through the first pages. “You were right, you could make a good spy,” he considered, talking more to himself. He closed the notebook using his right pointer finger as a bookmark.

“Can I read it?”

“I wouldn’t have given it to you otherwise.”

“Right. What’s with that face?”

Victor’s face furrowed, mirroring the frown between Yuri’s eyes; no matter how hard he tried, Yuri was not good at hiding his emotions.

“Something wrong?” Victor questioned, raising a hand to gently grab Yuri’s wrist. Yuri’s diverted his gaze, fixing on some spot on the wooden floor.

“It’s that… I never imagined one day you’d read it,” Yuri explained, voice shy, as if he was justifying himself.

Not saying a word, Victor brought Yuri’s hand to his lips, pressing them lightly against the ring finger’s third knuckle. Seeing how pink spread across Yuri’s nose bridge was such a nice view.

“I’ll give it back when I’m finished,” Victor then said, tapping on the yellow cover.

“Keep it,” Yuri countered. He didn’t need it anymore.

 

“Do you want to read what I’ve written about you?” Victor offered soon after, almost as an exchange, as he put the yellow notebook in the first desk drawer and took out the blue one once again. “I can translate, of course.”

 

The offer was sweet, tempting. It had never been easy for Yuri knowing that people had their opinions about him. Not being able to know what they were, gave fertile soil for the worst scenarios his mind could produce; it made otherwise small flaws so giant, Yuri could think of nothing but them. Nonetheless, he was also well aware of the immaturity of such behaviour. The fact that he couldn’t possibly know every single opinion others had about him didn’t mean those opinions were negative. Paranoia was a beast better left starving.

Yuri took a deep breath.

“No, I don’t need it.”

“You sure?”

Yuri nodded, stepping ahead to sit on Victor’s lap. “Yes,” he assured, “You’ll tell me the things you noticed about me in due time.”

Choosing to not know what Victor had said about him was an act of faith, of love; just like giving Victor one of his most precious belongings. It spoke of “trust” loud and clear.

“It’s a long list,” Victor warned. Yuri didn’t skip a beat.

“We have time.“

 

It was funny how just a year before, Yuri would’ve never even dared to imagine sitting on Victor’s thighs, having Victor’s left arm hooked lazily around his waist, fingers just slightly pressing on his belly, brushing the cotton of his T-shirt.

“I like it when you are this bold,” Victor hummed.

“Bold?” Yuri wondered.

“Yes. It’s always so unexpected,” Victor continued, pointer finger of his free hand running up to his mouth, tapping the lower lip as he was searching for the right word.

“And you like it?”

Yuri now teased, going with the sudden flow of confidence surging in him. He shifted a bit from his position, butt not quite accidentally brushing against Victor’s groin.

“It's extremely alluring, Yuri, trust me,” Victor purred, voice low, capturing Yuri’s lips.

 

The blue notebook fell on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. It’s the end. I started by publishing a three page long prologue because I had this sudden need for validation at 3 am, and the prologue was the only thing I had ready and I ended up writing a + 100 pages fan fiction. I basically wrote a small novel in the span of four months. It’s not big, but wow.  
> It’s the first time in ages I managed to finish a multi chapter fic without losing interest after the first few chapters. I’m so happy and proud.
> 
> I guess that choosing to write a long fic instead of an OS changed several things. In my view OS shouldn’t be too long, a 15k words maximum. Otherwise, I start breaking them down into smaller chapters. So if I had written an OS instead, numerous details probably would’ve been missed. Instead, having to reach a nice length for each chapter forced me to dig into details and characters’ personalities. It made me write more. I had a quirk for brevity, so it had been very strange to find myself writing more and more. I have still a long way to go, but it’s a start.
> 
> Seikotash has been a saint. She worked so hard to honor the one-week updating schedule, even if she could delay the times. She often helped me in saving what I had already written, even if she could easily tell me to rewrite it. She was always so kind and helpful, providing more information than I ended up using. The fact that she contacted me and offered me her help has been truly a great thing. 
> 
> So, what’s now? As mentioned earlier, chapters 1 to 3 need revision, so in the following weeks I’ll fix them with the help of my beta, needless to say. Seikotash has also suggested to write a side-fic featuring the epistolary exchange between Yuri and Victor and the idea is sweet, but right now I don’t have the time (finals are approaching, there’s a fic I need to write for an exchange and another one I would like not to leave incomplete).  
> Once everything will be fixed, I’ll crosspost the fic also on fanfiction.net (for no other reason apart from visibility) and I’ll probably re-translate it back to Italian, which is my mother language in order to put it on an Italian-only fanfiction site (again, for visibility sake).
> 
> Tumblr user “Anakito” did the wonderful thing of opening drawing requests to fanfic authors. Check the wonderful drawing she made for a scene in chapter 6 (http://anakito.tumblr.com/post/160517465283/fanfiction-doodle-requestart-by-anakito-fandom). Her initiative really needs love and support.
> 
> I’ve also requested an aesthetic board to Tumblr user “of-pasta-and-potatoes” and I’m sure her work will be very nice. Looking forward to see it.
> 
> And, of course, go to appreciate chiihun art. Without her wonderful Military AU art this fanfic wouldn’t have existed. 
> 
> I’ve appreciated every single kudos, every comment, every bookmark and subscription. Most of the readers have lurked, but I love you all! My tumbrl is always open if you want to gosh about YOI and Victuuri.

**Author's Note:**

> So. After having seen this gorgeous art (http://chiihun.tumblr.com/post/156554245932/i-had-way-wayyyy-too-much-fun-with-this-rolls), I knew I had to write something. However military AU can be a pain in the ass because I want to be accurate and it's hard.  
> At the beginning I've planned this to be a long OS. However, since it was thought as a series of "episodes/scenes", I had the idea I could try for once to publish it a mini-multichapter fiction.  
> I don't know, let's see.  
> The fan fiction won't probably be very long and has already an end almost written. What is missing at the moment, actually, is the central body.
> 
> Since Japan hasn't really an army, to ease things I've decided to put both Yuri and Phichit in the US Army. Please don't be offended by this choice, I needed it to give the story a certain level of plausibility. Then, let's say that they live in a reality very similar to ours, but not exactly the same.
> 
> The story is set in the 1980s, more or less. 
> 
> I'm bad with military ranking, so correct me if I've made a mess. 
> 
> Or I'm just making a bad decision at 3 am.


End file.
